


Baby, now you do.

by WildImaginings



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Hayffie, I love tropes, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, Tropes abound, cuddling for warmth, holiday au, smut ahoy, the power's out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildImaginings/pseuds/WildImaginings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens when you ask me to write my favourite trope.<br/>Effie and Haymitch are neighbours. And not the friendly 'hey can I borrow a cup of sugar' kind. A power cut, a storm and a locked door force them to *ahem* work out their feelings. Title is again taken from Video Games by Lana Del Rey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Umbrella_ella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/gifts).



> For Ella- I'm not even sorry for this.

If three words had to be used to sum up Effie Trinket, she’d like to think that one of those words would be ‘positive’. She doesn’t like negativity, avoids it at all costs wherever possible, and she tries her very best to approach things with a ‘glass half full’ mentality. Which is why, when she returns home at 2pm on a Friday afternoon, she’s not too concerned to walk into a cold house with no electricity. 

She’s had a particularly long week at work, late nights spent at her desk putting together figures for the yearly audit, and her boss had surprised her this afternoon with a bottle of wine and an early finish by way of thanks. She’d left the office in an exceedingly good mood, a spring in her step and a smile on her face as she’d made her way home.

The sky outside is overcast and grey, her hands feel like icicles in her gloves, and she’s pretty sure she’s lost all of the feeling in her toes, but Effie doesn’t let her good mood falter. Instead, she toes off her heels, slips her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers, and grabs a thick blanket to wrap around herself.

Settling down on the sofa, she reaches for her laptop, intent on getting a head start on the new set of figures she needs to get completed next week, before she realises that the lack of power isn’t going to allow her to get anything done.

Oh well. No matter. Maybe this is a sign from above that she should give herself a break tonight. Reaching for the magazine resting on top of the coffee table, Effie starts to do what she does best; she plans.

She’ll get lost in the latest fashions for the next hour or so, and then when the power’s back on she’ll run a nice warm bath full of bubbles and soak away the tension that she’s allowed to build up for the last week. She’ll take her time blow drying her hair and then she’ll paint her nails AND her toenails with the new shade of Christmas red she picked up at the mall last week.  
When it reaches a respectable hour, 6pm or so, she’ll pour herself a glass of merlot, turn on the lights on the Christmas tree, and relax with a movie.

Yes, Effie thinks as she wraps the blanket around herself as tight as she can manage, and flips open the cover of the glossy magazine. That sounds like a plan.

* * *

By the time 5pm rolls around, the sky outside is almost black and Effie is already on her second glass of wine. Her hair is un-styled, her nails are bare and unpainted, and she is absolutely freezing, shivering pathetically as she she burrows further into the cocoon of blankets she’s created. She’s fetched two more from the airing cupboard in the last hour, and yet they’re no match for the chill that’s settled over the room. 

The wind is howling through the trees, and the rain is battering against the windows, and Effie can barely see her hand in front of her face. The last vestiges of her good mood have all but disappeared, she can feel the first stirrings of panic in her chest, and she’s _really_ starting to wish she hadn’t thrown out those candles just because they didn’t match her new colour scheme.

Effie _**hates**_ the dark.

She can’t put her finger on _when_ exactly it stopped being just a childish worry and turned into a full blown fear, but she has a fair idea of _why_ , and she thinks that it’s probably got a little something to do with her Mother.

Her Mother, who had no time at all for such foolish things as nightlights or leaving the landing light on, no matter how much her youngest daughter had begged and pleaded with her.  
Her Mother isn’t a bad person as such; she’s just always lacked patience and understanding, especially when it comes to children. Effie’s grown to accept that it’s just the way her Mother is. She loves her in her own way, and Effie has learnt to make it feel like it’s enough.

But the fear of the dark has remained with her, and even now, in her thirties, Effie still can’t sleep without a light on. She’s tried; God knows she’s tried. She’d bought a timer once, set it up before she’d drifted off to sleep. She’d thrown it away the very next morning after she’d woken up in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness. She’d screamed so loudly that her upstairs neighbour had banged on the floor with such an intensity, she'd half expected a crack to appear in her ceiling.

The memory pulls Effie from her reverie, and forces her to confront head on what she knows is rapidly becoming her only option. She’s been trying to ignore the obvious for the last hour or so, convincing herself the power is going to come back on, but it’s about 10 minutes away from being completely dark outside and if she ends up stuck in here without any light, she knows she’ll have a panic attack. Her hands are already wringing together nervously, her leg is bouncing up and down jerkily, and she can feel her breaths becoming shorter.

So Effie does what she knows she has to do. 

She picks up her glass, gets to her feet, and throws the blankets off her shoulders, cringing inwardly at the bitterly cold chill in the air. Glass still in hand, she makes her way over to the table that’s situated near her front door, removing her feet from her comfy slippers, and slipping them back into her black heels. She removes her coat from the hook, ties it around her waist, and drains the rest of the wine from the glass before slamming it down hard.  
She figures she’ll need some dutch courage for what she’s about to do.

Taking a deep breath, she opens the door and braces herself for what’s coming. The storm that’s currently raging outside is the least of her worries.

 

She’s going to see her neighbour.  
_**She’s going to see Haymitch.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sorry.  
> PS- they live in a duplex (upstairs and downstairs)  
> Apologies for the AWFUL formatting in this chapter. After editing and saving 5 times without the changes sticking, I almost threw my laptop across the room.

It’s not like Effie had deliberately set out to make an enemy of Haymitch when she’d moved into the unit below him three years ago. Quite the opposite in fact. She’d gone out of her way to be friendly to him. 

She’d taken a basket of homemade muffins to his door, even though technically, as a new resident she should have been the one with a welcoming committee. She’d never gotten the basket back.

She’d waved and said hello and asked how he was every time she’d passed him on the driveway. She’d never gotten more than a grunt in response.

She’d signed for a package for him, even though the mailman had been adamant that he usually just left them on the porch. She’d pinned a handwritten note to his door explaining, and even though she’d heard him return home later that night, the package was still in her living room three days later. In the end, she’d left it on her porch, and when she’d opened the door a couple of hours later, it was gone.

The final straw had been when she’d returned home from the office Christmas party two years ago and found him drunk and slumped on her welcome mat. She’d got down on her knees, wrapped her arms around him and helped him to his feet, before dragging him around to his entranceway. She’d managed to locate his keys and unlock his door, after some seriously awkward digging around in the pockets of his pants. After dragging him up his stairway and making sure he was safely situated on his couch, she’d expected at least a thank you.

Instead, he’d placed his hands on her hips as he looked her up and down, told her she should feel him up more often (a reference to the keys, she assumes) and proceeded to throw up.  
All over her 300 dollar shoes. 

Strangely enough, that little episode had taken away any of Effie’s desire to be neighbourly towards him..  
But as soon as she had resolved to simply ignore him should their paths ever cross again, Haymitch had seemingly decided that pissing off Effie Trinket would become his new favourite pastime. 

 

And that’s the way it’s been ever since.

If Haymitch passes her on the driveway and he thinks her new outfit looks ridiculous; he’ll tell her. If Haymitch sees her new furniture being delivered and he thinks it looks ridiculous; he’ll tell her. And if Haymitch thinks that her new Boyfriend looks ridiculous.. well, then he’ll tell _**him**_. 

Her relationship with Seneca had fizzled out not long after the last time Haymitch had insulted him, and she can’t say she blames him for wanting to keep his distance.

 

In short, if Haymitch Abernathy spots an opportunity to insult Effie Trinket, he’ll grab it with both hands.

Which is why Effie is struggling to feel at all positive as she shuts the front door behind her and makes her way down the steps of the porch, scarf wrapped around her head in an attempt to shield her hair and face from the rain that’s currently beating down against her coat.  
As she rounds the corner of the house her foot catches on something sticking up from the grass, and she manages to steady herself just in time, narrowly avoiding taking a tumble. She squints down at the floor and manages to make out the faint outline of an empty bottle.

Lovely.

Effie grits her teeth, and carries on walking until she’s standing under the small canopy that hangs above his front door. This will be over quickly. She’ll knock, ask him if he has a couple of candles she can borrow (he must have, surely?) and then she’ll be on her way. No need to make small talk or give him the opportunity to insult her. Knock, candles, home. Simple.

Huddling as close as she can to the door, Effie brings up her hand and gives three sharp raps against the wood. Nothing. She repeats the motion and scrunches her eyes shut, trying to focus on anything other than the oppressive darkness that seems to be enveloping her. 

A growl of frustration escapes Effie’s lips. She knows for a fact that Haymitch is home. Had heard him thumping up the stairs earlier as she’d been sitting on the sofa and reading her magazine. He’s clearly ignoring her, and that simply won’t do. Effie lifts up her hand, draws it back, and then proceeds to bang holy hell out of the door.

It takes a minute, but then there’s the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs, closely followed by a crash and a not so muffled shout of “ _ **fuck!**_ ” and then the door in front of Effie is yanked open and she comes face to face with Haymitch Abernathy.

 

It’s difficult to see the exact expression on his face in this light, but Effie assumes it’s probably one of amusement, judging by the laugh he barks out when he catches sight of her.

“Nice get up you’ve got going on there Princess,” he chuckles, motioning to the scarf wrapped around her head, and Effie takes a deep breath in through her nose as she wills herself to stay calm.

“Good Evening, Haymitch. I was wondering if perhaps you had a candle or two that I could borrow? I would, of course, purchase you replacements first thing in the morning,” she asks as politely as she can manage.

“Don’t tell me Little Miss Organised isn’t adequately prepared for a powercut. Imagine that!” he teases, hand flying to his chest in a mock display of outrage.

 

Effie digs her nails into the palm of her hand, willing away the familiar sense of annoyance that always seems to flare up when she’s forced to speak to this infuriating man, and takes another calming breath as she resists the urge to break eye contact.

“I have simply misplaced my emergency supplies,” she lies, willing her teeth not to chatter as her hands burrow further into the pockets of her coat, “and I’d appreciate it if you could find it within yourself to do the neighbourly thing and help me.”

“What’s the matter, Princess? Scared of the dark?” he taunts, and Effie is absolutely horrified when she feels tears springing to her eyes, and her bottom lip starting to shake, and _oh god_ , he will never let her live this down.

“Please, Haymitch,” she whispers, and her voice is shaking, her nails digging into the palms of her hands almost hard enough to break the skin now, and Haymitch at least has the decency to look slightly sheepish as he registers her obvious distress at the situation.

He mumbles at her to wait for him, and as he makes his way up the stairs Effie turns around and blinks her eyes hard, hot tears burning her icy cold cheeks. She swipes them away angrily with the edge of her scarf as she hears him making his way back downstairs, and as she turns back around to face him she steels herself for whatever sarcastic comment he’s about to bestow on her.

But the comment never comes. 

Instead, a brown paper bag is thrust into her arms, and she hears something that sounds suspiciously like an apology before the door is unceremoniously slammed shut in her face.

Charming.

It’s almost completely dark now, but when Effie peers into the bag she can see that it contains two candles and a box of matches, and she feels that panic that’s been steadily building in her chest slowly start to subside. 

As she makes her way back around to her porch, clutching the bag tightly to her chest so she doesn’t get the candles or matches wet, she’s already starting to feel more positive. She’s halfway through planning her weekend when she approaches her doorway, hand reaching into her pocket for her keys and encountering…

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing whatsoever, because Effie’s pockets are empty, and her keys are where they always are; in her handbag. On the sofa. In her living room. Behind her automatically locking door.

.

And that’s how Effie Trinket finds herself on Haymitch Abernathy’s doorstep for the second time that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there soon..

Effie sits awkwardly on the edge of his couch, hands folded in her lap as she listens to the clatter coming from the kitchen, muffled curses audible in amongst the slamming of cupboard doors. She’s removed the scarf from around her head, and although her hair is mostly dry, it’s tousled and wild, sticking slightly to the damp skin of her face.

 

She’s still wearing her coat, and while fashionable it’s certainly not waterproof, designed to withstand a slight breeze at most, and she can feel wetness starting to seep through to her skin.

 

Two candles are flickering on the table and another on the mantelpiece, and while the room isn’t light by any stretch of the imagination, it’s enough that Effie can see all four corners almost clearly. That alone is enough to comfort her slightly; to ease the overwhelming sense of fear that’s been creeping over her steadily for the past hour.

  
  


The clinking of glass pulls Effie from her reverie, and when she looks up she’s greeted with the sight of Haymitch approaching her, two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid in his hands.

 

“I don’t remember asking for a drink,” she sniffs, unable to keep the disapproving tone out of her voice as Haymitch sets both glasses down on the coffee table in front of her.

 

“You’re telling me I went to the trouble of finding two clean glasses and you’re not even going to bother making use of yours?” he asks, a slight teasing tone to his voice as he positions himself on the other side of the sofa. “You’ll change your mind. It’s going to be a long night, and it’s only get colder; at least this’ll warm you up some.”

 

There’s no armchair in the room, only the wooden chairs around the dining table, and as much as Effie despises the thought of being in such close proximity to him, she realises that she can’t very well ask him to make himself uncomfortable when he’s let her into his home.

 

An awkward silence fills the room, and Effie has to resist the urge to comment on the weather.

 

She’s going to get sick if she sits here all night in a wet coat, and it’s clear that Haymitch isn’t going to be gentleman and offer to take it for her anytime soon, so Effie stands up and undoes her belt. She can’t see a coat stand anywhere, and so she has to drape her coat over the back of the sofa in the hope that it’ll dry off slightly. It'll have to do, given the circumstances. She hears Haymitch utter a low noise of amusement, and she turns to face him, eyebrow arched expectantly.

 

“You’ve really got the whole sexy secretary look down to a tee,” he smirks, eyes trailing lazily down her body, blatantly checking her out and making no attempt to hide it.

 

“I believe we’ve covered this before, Haymitch. I am NOT a secretary. I’m a PA,” she sniffs, trying to ignore the fact that he’s just referred to her as sexy. She is NOT going to focus on that. Instead, she focuses on her outfit. She’s wearing a short sleeved white shirt tucked into a high waisted black skirt. Black pantyhose and heels complete the look; typical office attire, and not at all inappropriate. She’s only got two buttons undone, for heaven's sake.

 

“Well you certainly look like a secretary to me.”

 

Effie resists the urge to roll her eyes and sits back down on the edge of the sofa, hands coming up to nervously smooth over her skirt. Her arms are bare, goosebumps rising on her flesh, and when an involuntary shiver runs through her body, Effie curses her body for its weakness.

 

She feels movement next to her, and turns to see Haymitch getting to his feet and disappearing from the room with no explanation. All becomes clear when he returns less than a minute later with a tartan blanket bundled up in his arms which he throws onto Effie’s lap as he sits back down on the sofa, closer now than before.

 

He angles his body forward and picks up both of their glasses, and when he presses her drink into her hand and leans back, body settling into the sofa, she tries not to focus on how his leg feels pressed up against hers.

 

“Drink up.”

 

Against her better judgement, Effie brings the glass to her lips and takes a small sip, wrinkling her nose as the liquid burns her throat on the way down. Whisky.

 

“How on earth can you drink this all the time?” she splutters, and she’s trying to remain as ladylike as possible but it’s difficult when her throat is on fire, and her tongue is burning, and she _really_ wishes she had the other half of that bottle of merlot right now.

 

“I don't drink it all the time. Often, sure, but not all the time. I'm not quite an alcoholic. Almost, but not quite,” he informs her as he reaches for the bottle, and Effie throws a doubtful look his way.

 

She gingerly places her glass down on his coffee table, noting the lack of a coaster and not finding it surprising in the slightest, and picks up the blanket that’s resting on her lap, bringing it up to wrap around her shoulders.

 

“Not so fast Princess. That's got to go between the two of us. If you ask me extra nicely, maybe I'll see if I have a sweater you can borrow. You certainly look cold in that shirt,” he smirks, and his eyes are on her breasts, and _oh god_ it’s pretty obvious what he’s commenting on.

 

“I don't think it's going to come to that Haymitch,” Effie informs him curtly as she crosses her arms across her chest.

 

“Wouldn’t count on it Sweetheart. The power’s not coming back on any time soon, and even if it does, you’re stuck here. As I said before; it’s going to be a long night,” he teases, his thigh still pressed up against hers.

 

Effie hands the blanket to Haymitch as calmly as she can, resisting the very real urge to throw it in his annoyingly smug face, groaning internally as she realises he’s right;  it’s going to be a very long night, and he’s going to do his best to make her squirm as much as possible. She can’t go home, and it’s an hour long drive to her parents house, and she does not want to contemplate the thought of driving an hour in the dark with no streetlights, only to be faced with her Mother at the end of it. She’s just going to have to try and make the best of a bad situation. To play Haymitch at his own game.

 

 

 

Effie sighs wearily, and reaches for her drink.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got tonsillitis, and I haven't slept properly in like 2 days, so apologies if this has mistakes.

Two hours later and Effie's on her third glass of whisky, the amber liquid going down easier now and not burning her throat with quite the same intensity as before. It seems to be distracting her from the cold, so at least that’s something.

 

Well. That and the sweater she'd finally given in and asked for an hour ago.

 

It's large, hanging slightly off her shoulder and it smells of Haymitch. It's not an unpleasant smell as such, and she can't put her finger on what it is that makes it smell so distinctly of him, but she finds herself surrounded by the scent, and she's shocked to find that she's not nearly as repelled by that as she should be.

 

Her leg is still pressed up against his, and the blanket is draped across the both of them, and Effie isn't sure if the flush on her cheeks is because of the alcohol or if it's due to the fact that she hasn't been this close to a man in almost a year.

The fact that the man in question happens to be Haymitch, coupled with the fact that she can feel her body instinctively leaning in towards his against her better judgement is just making her more flustered.

 

“I can't believe you don't have a Christmas tree,” she exclaims for the second time that night, and when she crosses one leg over the other and angles her body slightly towards him, trying to seek out some extra warmth, her calf brushes against his and she swears she hears a hitch in his breath.

 

She feels a little thrill run through her at the thought that she's elicited that response from him, and she brushes her leg against him again as subtly as she can manage, wanting to test his reactions. He doesn't disappoint, and when he throws his head back and downs the glass of whisky he's holding in one gulp, she thinks that maybe he’s more affected by his proximity to her than he’d like to admit.

 

She's not sure what exactly she should do with that information; isn't sure what she _wants_ to do with it, if truth be told. All she knows is that he's here, and that he's the only warm thing in the room, and that the look that he'd thrown her way when he'd seen emerge from the bathroom, candle in hand and wearing his clothes, had definitely not been platonic.  

 

There's something else too, something bubbling under the surface that Effie can't quite name, and her tongue comes out to moisten her lips slightly as she tries to calm the beating of her heart.

 

“I told you. Don't see the point when there's nothing to go under it,” he murmurs, and he's trying to sound nonchalant but his eyes are on her lips, and when he shifts slightly, the leg that Effie has crossed is suddenly dangerously close to being draped over his knee.

 

He looks down, eyes seeming to linger on the shape of her legs under the blanket, before reaching forward and grabbing the bottle of Scotch from the table.

 

“I bet Beardy makes sure your Christmas tree is fully stocked with presents,” he mutters, leaning over slightly to refill her glass when she holds it out to him, “where is he lately anyway? Haven't seen him in a while,” and it takes her a while to realise that he's talking about Seneca, the alcohol fuzzing her brain slightly.

 

“His name is Seneca and we broke up almost a year ago, Haymitch. I don't think you telling him he looked like he had a maze growing on his face helped,” she huffs, and Haymitch laughs loudly. It’s a proper belly laugh, the likes of which she’s never heard from him before, and Effie feels small smile play at her lips before she’s able to stop it, and it’s clear that Haymitch notices by the almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrow.

 

“So you've been single for the past year? Because of me?” he enquires hesitantly, his tone almost shy, and he's not meeting her eyes, instead choosing to focus on the tartan that lies across their laps, but he's asked the question now, and it's out there, and there's nothing he can do to take it back.

 

Effie feels warm for the first time all night, and maybe it's the whisky, or maybe it's just him but the candles are flickering and the wind is howling outside, and it's now or never, and she makes her decision as she takes a fortifying sip from her glass and musters all of the courage she has.

 

“You could say that,” she whispers as confidently as she can manage, and she moves her leg so that it hooks slightly over his as she clutches the glass tightly in her hand. Her heart feels like it's beating right out of her chest, and she thinks that this is quite possibly the most daring she's ever been, and she tilts her head up to look at him, lips parting slightly as their eyes meet.

 

She can see the exact moment he registers her intent, and he looks dazed, dumbfounded even, and for a horrible second, Effie wonders if she's completely misjudged this; if she's made an overt and blatant pass at a man who has absolutely no interest in her whatsoever, and she's going to have to live in the same building as him for the foreseeable future, and _oh god_ , she really doesn't want to have to move just after she's finally got the colour scheme right in her bedroom.

 

But then his hand comes down to tentatively rest on her blanket covered knee, hand lightly tracing over the tartan pattern, and Effie breathes an internal sigh of relief as she realises that she hasn't made a fool of herself after all.

 

“Guess I should apologise for that, huh?” he says, and his hand seems to hesitate for a second before boldly slipping under the blanket and settling on her thigh, higher than before, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of her skirt, and Effie manages to stop the moan that threatens to tumble from her lips.

 

“No apologies necessary, he wasn't really that great. But I do find myself with some free time on my hands lately. I wonder; do you have any suggestions on how I can occupy myself?” The last part of her sentence rushes out quickly, and even to her own ears her voice sounds breathy and high pitched; higher than she'd care to admit.

 

But Haymitch doesn't seem to mind; quite the opposite in fact, and when his hand shifts to grip her thigh, Effie gasps before she can stop herself and her eyes flutter shut momentarily before opening to focus on his. She bites down hard on her bottom lip, and his eyes flicker down to take in the sight.  

 

Things happen relatively quickly after that.

 

He groans harshly and tightens his grip on her thigh, fingers flexing as he yanks her body towards his, and Effie's hand jolts slightly, the remaining whisky in her glass spilling over the arm of her sofa.

 

.

  
Then his lips are on hers, and any thought of an apology flies out of the window.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be (mild) smut.

Effie feels drunk, and she's pretty sure she hasn't taken a proper breath for at least two minutes, but breathing isn't too high up on her list of priorities at the moment. Not when Haymitch is kissing her, and his lips are slightly chapped against hers, and she's not sure if the whisky she can taste is from him or from her.

 

His lips are moving insistently against hers, and when his tongue licks against the seam of her mouth she opens up eagerly to allow him entrance, his tongue massaging hers as his hand smooths up and down her thigh. They're not in the most comfortable position; she's pressed up against his side and she doesn't have the level of access that she'd like, but her skirt is tight, doesn't allow her much flexibility, and she guesses that she'll just have to make do for now.  

 

She hooks her leg as tightly as she can manage over his knee, and Haymitch angles his body towards her slightly, hand leaving her thigh and travelling up her back before coming to tangle in her hair. He clutches the back of her head as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding over hers in a sensuous rhythm, and Effie moans into his mouth as her hand comes up to caress the side of his face.

 

He breaks the kiss, lips brushing against hers gently and she takes the opportunity to breathe properly for the first time since this whole thing started.

 

“We should probably stop. I don't think you want this.”

 

It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do they surprise her, and she feels her face contort into a frown.

 

“What do you mean? I don't think we should stop,” she murmurs, and she steals another kiss, mouth meeting his languidly.

 

He allows the kiss for a few seconds, eyes closing before he opens them and stops the kiss again, breath huffing out against her lips.

 

“You're drunk, and I don't think you'll thank me for this in the morning,” he mutters, and there's a reluctant tone colouring his words, and Effie can feel the frown stealing over her features again.

 

She flattens her palm against his cheek and turns his face so that he's looking at her square in the eyes, keeping her hand in place as she considers her next words.

 

“I'm not going to deny that I'm drunk; I think we both are,” she says, and he snorts disbelievingly, hand still tangled in her hair.

“But I'm not sure where you got the idea that I don't want this. I don't tend to do things like this unless I want to,” she breathes against his lips before capturing them in a fiery kiss, intent on showing him the full extent of her desire.

 

When the kiss ends, she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth before breaking away from him, forehead coming to rest against his as they both try to catch their breath.

 

“I want this,” she sighs breathily, “I want _you_.”

 

He still doesn't look like he totally believes her, eyebrows raising slightly as his hands slowly untangle from her hair and come to rest on her back.

 

“We'll see if you're still saying that in the morning Princess. I think it's probably time you got some sleep” he chuckles, but there's a somewhat self deprecating quality to his laugh, and Effie wants to challenge him; to tell him she wants him _now damn it_ , and that she's not tired at all, but the yawn escapes from her mouth unbidden and she finds that she's in no position to argue.

 

“Fine,” she grumbles, and he looks surprised when she pushes on his chest lightly to encourage him to recline on the couch, settling down next to him so that her back presses against his chest and pulling the blanket over them both.

 

“Too cold to lie here alone,” she mutters, and she's too drunk to care about how desperate she must sound, can really feel the effects of the alcohol now that she's horizontal, head swimming slightly as her eyes close.

 

His hand comes down to rest on her stomach under the blanket and Effie is dimly aware of the racing of his heart as she drifts off to sleep.

 

***

  
  


When Effie wakes, the first thing she notices is the arm draped across her stomach, fingers just barely touching skin where the sweater has shifted and ridden up in the night. The second thing she notices is the lamp in the corner, light just visible in the already bright room. The power has obviously come back at some point in the night, and Effie jolts slightly as she realises that she's slept all night fully clothed on this couch. With Haymitch.

 

She must jump quite violently, because she feels him stiffen behind her, and she clears her throat awkwardly as she extricates herself from his arms, busying herself straightening her skirt so that she doesn't have to look into his eyes.

 

Her head is buzzing; not a full blown hangover as such, but there's a definite pressure there, and Effie brings a hand to her head as she scrunches her eyes shut tightly.

 

“Looks like the power's back on. Expect you'll be wanting to call a locksmith; phone's over there.”

 

His voice is gruff and when Effie turns to finally look at him she finds his eyes downcast, focused on the blanket that still lies across his lap. She wants to say something; to say anything to break the uncomfortable silence that's settled over the room, but she can't form the words, can't think of anything that won't sound inane and ridiculous and completely out of place.

 

She makes her way over the the telephone and calls the number she finds in the phonebook, voice hushed and hurried, and when she leaves twenty minutes later he doesn't say goodbye.

 

***

 

Effie's been staring at the sweatshirt that's neatly folded on her sofa for the last twenty minutes or so, eyeing it distrustfully as if it may burst into flames at any moment.

 

The locksmith had turned up mercifully quickly, and she's been back in her apartment for a good few hours now, trying to fill her time with as much as possible so that she doesn't think about the events of last night. She's freshly bathed, hair blow dried and styled, and her nails are shining with a double coat of Christmas red. The kitchen has been cleaned to within an inch of its life, laundry folded and stored away; all in all, the house is in pretty good shape.

 

So now Effie's sat on her couch, mug of coffee in her hands forgotten as she stares at the offending garment from where it mocks her on the arm of the sofa. She hadn't intentionally left Haymitch's house while still wearing his clothes earlier; had only registered the fact as she was running her bath, bubbles rising steadily to the rim of the tub.

 

She places the cold cup down onto the coaster on the coffee table and chews her lip as her fingers worry the white angora of her sweater between her newly painted nails.  

 

Although the heat's back on, a chill still lingers in the air, and she's dressed with comfort and warmth in mind, content in the knowledge that she's got no plans to be anywhere today. The angora is cosy and thick, and fitted denim black pants (she refuses to call them jeans) complete the look.

 

Effie slaps her hands down on her thighs and gets to her feet before she can think better of it, walking over to the sweatshirt and letting her hand hover, suspended in mid air and wavering slightly, before dropping it down slightly to rest on the fabric.

 

She's been trying not to think about last night; about the feel of his lips on hers, and the way his stubble had brushed against her cheek while his hand gripped her thigh, and _oh god_ his hands..

 

Glancing at the door, Effie chews her lip slightly as she considers her next move carefully. She could take the cowards way out; wait until she hears him go out and leave his sweater in a bag on his doorstep with a note thanking him for his hospitality. They'll be back to their old ways within a week, kiss forgotten...

 

Or, she could be brave. Could march up there, knock on his door and see him face to face. Possibly stay for a coffee if he offers. He won't, of course, but the thought takes shape in Effie's mind, and before she knows it she's grabbing his sweatshirt in her hand and marching over to her door.

 

***

 

10 minutes later, and Effie's on Haymitch's couch. To be more specific; she's on Haymitch's couch, under Haymitch.

 

She's not sure how exactly they'd gotten to this point; she'd knocked on his door and he'd answered after thirty seconds or so, cautiously regarding her as she'd stammered out something about his hospitality. She'd thrust her hands out, sweater folded neatly and offered like a gift. Their hands had touched when he'd reached to retrieve it, and before she'd known it her lips had been on his, and the sweater was thrown to the floor, forgotten.

 

She'd not planned this per se; had only had a vague hope that something like this might happen, but Haymitch's hands are tangled in her hair, and his knee is pressed between her thighs, and she's really not complaining.

 

His fingers are lightly scratching her scalp in a way that's sending pleasant shivers down her spine, and for a moment she has a blind moment of panic at the thought of what her hair must look like. She's going to look like a mess, she'll look awful, and oh god she's not even wearing much make up, but then Haymitch's mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on her neck and Effie just tries to feel.

 

Haymitch covers her neck with soft kisses, lips ghosting a trail against her throat, and when he lightly nips the sensitive skin he finds there before soothing it gently with his tongue, Effie can't help the breathy _'oh!'_ that escapes her lips.

 

“Good?” he asks, voice gravelly and for some reason slightly doubtful, and Effie struggles to find her voice, settling instead for a jerky nod of her head.

 

Haymitch carries on with his motions until Effie is panting beneath him, one hand coming up to grip the back of his head and drag him up so that their lips meet in a drugging kiss. The movement causes his knee to press more firmly between her thighs, and Effie exhales a shaky breath at the feel of him, hips rocking forward of their own volition.

 

His hands tighten in her hair and Haymitch groans harshly into her mouth. Emboldened by his reaction, Effie tentatively rocks her hips forward again, back arching slightly as she grinds down on the hard muscle of his thigh. She carries on with her motions for a few minutes, the pressure on her clit dulled pleasantly by the denim of her pants, before tearing her mouth away from his on a particularly pleasant press of his knee against her.

 

“You can touch me..if you want to, that is,” she whispers, unaccustomed to voicing her wants so openly. There's something about Haymitch though; something about the way he looks at her as if he can't quite believe she's choosing to be there with him. She feels the overwhelming need to show him that she wants this just as much as him; maybe more, judging by the wetness she can feel seeping through her panties.

 

“Do _you_ want me to?” His voice is unsure, and Effie decides that in this case, actions speaker louder than words as she reaches up and latches onto his wrists before bringing his hands down to rest at the hem of her sweater.

 

Haymitch leans back slightly so that he's half sitting, and for a moment he's completely still. Then his thumbs move downwards, pushing the angora up slightly so that the soft skin of her belly is exposed. He rubs gently along the exposed strip of skin, and Effie feels the muscles in her stomach jump beneath his touch.  

 

His hands continue their soft caress, the material of her sweater moving steadily up her stomach until it's resting below her breasts. His eyes meet hers, and she sees the question swirling in the grey depths. She makes the decision for him, hands moving up and swiftly pulling the garment up and over head, and then she's lying in front of him, dressed in only her pants and bra.

 

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes harshly, and it takes Effie a couple of seconds and a glance down at the exceedingly lacy black bra she's wearing to realise the reason for his outburst.

 

His thumb seeks out her straining nipple through the almost see through lace, and when he flicks at it lightly Effie lets out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering closed and head tipping back. He repeats the action on her other breast before removing his hands, and Effie opens her eyes and looks down ready to rebuke him for stopping, only to be greeted by the sight of him dipping his head towards her.

 

He swirls his tongue around the erect bud before giving her a gentle suck, the lace of her bra rasping against her nipple in a way that has her fisting her hand in his hair once more. He carries on for a couple of minutes until she's writhing beneath him, and then he pulls the cups of her bra down slowly, as if giving her a chance to back out.

 

She's got no intention of stopping now; not when she's half mad with lust, and her clit is throbbing against the lace of her panties, and she can see that he's hard against the fabric of his pants.

 

He seems to get the message, because he's leaning forward again, and this time when his tongue meets her breast, there are no barriers in the way. He's riled her up with his previous teasing, and he seems to know it, skipping any further light touches and drawing her nipple into his mouth on a deep suck. When he releases her, he scrapes his teeth against her lightly and Effie bucks up underneath him. Her hips lift up off the sofa, but his knee isn't in position anymore and she's left seeking friction where there is none, a desperate whine escaping her lips.

 

He pauses, lips still against her, and for a fraction of a second Effie has the horrible thought that he's going to stop. That he's going to tell her this is all a big mistake and ask her to leave. But then his hand is dragging down her stomach, burning a hot trail against her skin before coming to rest directly above her center.

 

Effie feels the hitch in her breath, and she tugs him by the back of his head until their noses are touching, lips brushing against in a whisper of a kiss. His hand starts to move, pressing firmly against the seam of her pants, and Effie crashes her lips against his once more, allowing her moan to be swallowed by his kiss.

 

He's rubbing rhythmically, hand pressing down right against her clit, and Effie can feel the soft slide of fabric against her as she grows wetter with every minute. After a while though, she needs more, needs to feel him, and when she gasps out “Inside Haymitch, please,” he makes a sharp noise as he drops his forehead down to rest against hers.

 

“Are you sure?” he pants out, short of breath after the intensity of their kisses, and her sincere _yes_ seems to be all it takes.

 

He makes short work of the buttons on her pants, and his hand traces over the skin of her lower stomach before dipping inside, and Effie inhales deeply while she waits for him to make his next move. It doesn't take long before his hand is dipping lower, and when he encounters sodden lace he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth.

 

He teases her lightly over her panties for a while before moving to the side and sliding under the flimsy edge to finally touch her where she wants him most.

 

“Christ Effie. You're so wet,” he groans, and Effie realises with a start that this is the first time she's heard him address her by name, and she tightens her grip on his shoulder, feeling herself grow impossibly wetter at the sound.

 

He trails soft circles around her clit before his touch becomes firmer, avoiding touching her directly and her hips are rotating desperately, wanting more of his touch, and then he leaves her clit behind, fingers coming down to trace at her opening and _oh_.

 

It must be difficult for him from this angle but he manages it, fingers slipping into her wet heat and curling slightly as his palm presses against her clit. He starts off slow, fingers sliding in and out lazily as he kisses her languidly, as if they've got all the time in the world.

 

“How do you like it?” he asks, and it takes a moment but Effie manages to choke out a _faster_ and Haymitch obliges, hand speeding up immediately. Her pants aren't skin tight, but he doesn't exactly have lots of room, and his fingers are thumping into her now, palm grinding against her clit firmly, and she's moaning and whimpering almost constantly, hips thrusting up against his hand as she struggles to pull him deeper inside.

 

It takes a shift in his angle, a particularly deep thrust and a sharp grind of his hand against her clit and she's coming, babbling nonsense and clutching at his shoulders and _oh god_ , his fingers are still sliding in and out of her but they're slower now, calmer, and Effie's back arches as she comes down from her high.

 

His hand leaves her panties and comes to rest at her side as he rests his forehead against hers once more, and Effie brings her hand down to fumble with the fly of his pants before slipping inside and drawing him out. He's hot and hard, and when she wraps her hand around him he sighs out her name again, and Effie thinks she could get used to hearing him say it.

 

Effie brings her thumb up to stroke across the tip of him, and then fists her hand around his cock once more, letting him thrust into her hand. He's thick in her palm, and Effie has to stop her eyes from fluttering shut when she thinks about how he would feel inside her.

 

He's clearly worked up after watching her come, and it doesn't take long before he's hissing out a warning to her but Effie just carries on, working his cock until he spills across her belly with a groan of her name.

 

He's panting, eyes scrunched shut as he breathes heavily, and Effie waits patiently until he open his eyes and looks into hers.

 

“Now do you believe that I want you?” she asks, trying to tamp down the blush that's threatening to spread across her cheeks, and what is it about this man that makes her so brazen, she wonders?

 

Haymitch holds her gaze and then he laughs, chuckling “I guess so, sweetheart,” as he kisses her again, sweeter this time, mouth almost gentle against hers.

 

  
As Effie lets herself get lost in the moment, thoroughly sated and completely relaxed, she resolves that this year, he'll have at least one gift to open under the Christmas tree.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texts and misunderstandings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has killed me, and I'm still not really 100% happy with it, but I think that if I spend a second longer on it, I will go mad.

When her phone starts to ring from its resting place on the coffee table, high pitched chirping threatening to pull her away from the heated kisses she's sharing with Haymitch, Effie tries her very best to ignore it. 

 

It's not likely to be work; her boss had been very insistent that he didn't want to see her in the office until Monday morning after the hellishly long week she'd put in, and she's on strict instructions to stay away from anything concerning audits or meetings. It's probably a sales call of some sort, of no importance whatsoever, and so Effie pushes the ringing to the back of her mind and tries to concentrate on the feel of Haymitch's chapped lips against hers.

 

The ringing stops, voicemail obviously kicking in, and Effie lets her tongue dart out quickly to lick across the seam of Haymitch's lips, his mouth opening and tongue stroking across hers as his chest brushes slightly against the tips of her still exposed breasts.  

 

The ringing starts up again and Effie reluctantly breaks away from the kiss, looking up at Haymitch apologetically. He rises up onto his knees fully, wincing at the change in position as Effie pushes herself upright, hands coming up to right the cups of her bra so that she's covered once more. Her hand drops down to rest on her stomach and she grimaces slightly at the stickiness she encounters there.

 

“Do you have any tissues?” she asks, swinging her legs around so that she's sitting straight on the sofa, her other hand coming up in an attempt to tame the unruly mess of her hair as she smiles shyly at Haymitch. He nods, tucking himself back into his pants but not bothering to redo his fly as he gets up and makes his way into the kitchen.

 

Leaning forward carefully to retrieve her phone from the table, Effie stifles a groan as she catches sight of the name flashing on the display. A conversation with her mother is the last thing she wants or needs right now, but she knows that if she doesn't answer the phone, or worse, rejects the call, she'll never hear the end of it.

 

The towel that suddenly lands in her lap jolts her from her thoughts, and she looks up to see Haymitch strolling towards her, a grin on his face as he watches her clean herself up as best she can, the room suddenly quiet as the ringing of her phone ceases momentarily.

 

“It's my mother, and she's bound to call straight back so I should probably go. But I'll see you soon? That is--I mean if you want to, of course,” she stutters, reaching to retrieve her sweater from where it's crumpled on the floor and pulling it on over her head.

 

“Sure,” he says, eyes never straying from her as she rises to her feet slowly, both of her hands coming up to smooth down her tangled hair as best as she can without the aid of a mirror. She's not sure what to say; it's not often that she finds herself in this sort of situation, and so she's at a loss when it comes to what would be appropriate. Not that letting your upstairs neighbour get you off on his sofa before returning the favour could be described as ‘appropriate’ in the slightest.

  
  


The phone starts up again, saving Effie from worrying further, and she tries to sound as confident as possible when she chirps, “Well, bye then!” but the second the words leave her mouth she knows she's failed; she sounds nervous, flustered, and she turns quickly to leave not wanting to embarrass herself any more than she already has.

 

Not that she's sure that would be possible.

 

***

 

It's over an hour later when Effie is finally able to hang up the phone, her head pounding and her mouth dry after a whole conversation spent trying to defend herself in the face of her mother. The conversation always goes the same way; small talk to begin with, pleasantries exchanged, followed by a full scale attack on her home, and her job, and her love life. Or lack thereof.  

 

Her mother seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up on Effie's vulnerable spots and using them to tear her to shreds under the guise of caring, and Effie bites her lip to try and quell the rising tide of tears that always seem to accompany these conversations. She will not cry. She will not cry when her day had been going perfectly well up until an hour ago.

 

At that, Effie's thoughts turn to Haymitch and the way she'd left things between them earlier. She very briefly considers going back up there and explaining herself, but she dismisses that thought quickly, reasoning that it'll just make things even more awkward than they already potentially are.

 

Besides, she thinks, looking down at her crumpled clothes and wrinkling her nose in distaste as she twirls a lock of crumpled hair around her finger absentmindedly. She's going to need to shower again before she even contemplates doing anything else with her day.  

 

*** 

 

The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the corner of the room, and Effie drains the last of her green tea, the closing credits of the schmaltzy Christmas movie she's been watching for the last two hours playing in the background. A hot chocolate would have been a more fitting accompaniment to the evening, cinnamon and marshmallows and whipped cream, but she's got a good two weeks of parties with food and drinks ahead of her, and she needs to start saving her calories now if she's going to face Christmas dinner with her mother at the end of those two weeks.  

 

If she doesn't look at her absolute best, or if she shows even the slightest bit of interest or enthusiasm in her food, she knows that she will be met with a barbed comment about how she's clearly been enjoying the excesses of the festive season.

 

She's already got her outfit for the day picked out, has planned it meticulously down to the final detail. Fitted and slimming black trousers paired with a beautiful cream coloured cashmere sweater. It's expensive looking enough that her mother will be impressed by the quality, and the cut and shape is loose enough to disguise any hint of the slight bulge of her belly while still flattering her figure.

 

Effie's not fooling herself into thinking that she's going to have a lovely Christmas Day. She loves Christmas, loves the season, but has never been a fan of the day itself, much prefers the build up. So she's looking forward to the parties, and the office Secret Santa, and even the gift wrapping, but she'll be glad when she's finally able to escape from her parents’ house after their formal dinner and come home to a large glass of wine. At least she'll only be expected to show her face there for a few hours; hopefully she can still get some enjoyment out of Christmas Day once she's left.

 

Her thoughts drift to Haymitch once more, and she wonders what his plans for Christmas Day are. She's never seen or heard any visitors to his home on the day; come to think of it, she can't really remember ever seeing or hearing any visitors. The thought almost has her heading straight upstairs and knocking on his door, and it's foolish but she thinks she probably would, if she hadn't heard him leaving a couple of hours ago.

 

She's not sure where he's gone; she shouldn't care really, but she hasn't been able to stop thinking of him since she closed his front door behind her. She's been going over her last words before leaving, and she's just about convinced herself that maybe she hasn't ruined things entirely between the two of them. She's not sure what exactly there  _ is _ between the two of them, but there's something, and she just wishes there was a way to speak with him now, to gage his reaction.

 

The email notification on her phone pings, and it only takes a few seconds before Effie's rapidly putting the pieces together, formulating a plan, and it's so simple, so straightforward and why didn't she think of this sooner? She has his number stored in her phone; had punched it in after his little drunken episode the night of her office Christmas party so that she could call and check on him the next day to make sure he hadn't drowned in a pool of his own vomit. She'd never needed to use it in the end, because she'd heard him heading out a little before noon the next day.  

 

Before she can talk herself out of it Effie's reaching for her phone and scrolling through her contacts list until she finds his name. She opens a blank text template and then stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she tries to think of what she wants to say. She doesn't want to scare him off, doesn't want to sound too needy, although she thinks that on a subconscious level, Haymitch wants to be needed. Needs to be needed.

 

In the end she settles for  _ I had a lovely time, _ sending the message before she can talk herself out of it and then feeling immediately ridiculous when she realises that he has no way of knowing who the message is from. He probably doesn't even know that she's got his number. She sends another message immediately afterwards, this one reading  _ It's Effie, by the way _ ,  _ Effie Trinket _ , throwing her phone down onto the sofa with a groan as soon as she's hit the send button.

 

Fifteen minutes pass by with no reply; fifteen minutes with only the noise of the television for company, and Effie's pacing now, berating herself for being so foolish as to think that there could actually be something there. For thinking that something good could have been on her doorstep this entire time. She's on the brink of pouring herself a glass of wine; it's around six pm now, and the sun has long since set, so it's not too early she reasons to herself, and then her phone buzzes to life with a notification and Effie stops pacing.

 

She snatches her phone up from the couch, spying his name on the display and taking a deep breath as she opens the text. She's not sure what she's expecting; certainly not a declaration of feelings or anything as romantic as that, but his  _ a lovely time? _ has her frowning. She can't work out if he's mocking her or just her choice of words, and she can feel her brow furrowing as she types her response, fingers flying over the keyboard like lightning.

 

The message she types turns out to be longer than she anticipates, reading  _ I am trying to tell you that I enjoyed spending time in your company and would be amenable to it happening again. Judging by your response, you clearly do not share this opinion. I apologise for misinterpreting your actions, and will endeavour not to bother you again _ , but she sends it anyway as she makes her way into the kitchen to pour that glass of wine.

 

Her phone buzzes to life five minutes later, and she can almost hear his laugh when she reads  _ Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm amenable, thought that was pretty obvious _ , and  **_Oh_ ** . Maybe she's overreacted just slightly. She's trying to think of something to say when her phone buzzes again, and she scoffs when she reads his  _ The cramp in my wrist says I'm 'amenable' _ , firing off a quick  _ Must you be so crude? _ in response.

 

There's a lull for a few minutes, and she's taking a sip of Merlot when another text comes through, and when Effie reads it she almost chokes on her wine.

 

_ Thought you liked it? Last time I was crude it made you even wetter _ , is what he's written, and Effie can physically feel the heat that blooms across her cheeks. She's not accustomed to receiving texts like this; Seneca would  **never** have sent her a text like this, but there's a hot lick of arousal in her belly, and she realises with a jolt that she  _ likes _ this. She likes that he seems to have no filter, and that he's willing to say whatever's on his mind; it makes her feel bold, fills her with a confidence she hadn't thought she'd possessed.

 

She wants to tell him; wants to tell him all sorts of things, wants to ask him things too, but she can't quite bring herself to write the words. Instead she settles for  _ No I suppose I wasn't complaining. You didn’t seem to be either _ and she takes a gulp of wine as she sends the text.

 

Her phone pings almost immediately, his previous message still open on the screen and Effie’s breath catches in her throat when she reads  _ I wasn’t complaining when your hand was wrapped around my cock _ , and  **_oh dear Lord_ ** , she thinks, as she jolts with the realisation that Haymitch Abernathy is sexting her. He must be drunk.

 

She touches the screen below his message to bring up the keyboard and then stops, and she can't quite believe that she's actually considering this. That she's considering sending a dirty text to her upstairs neighbour who she hadn't had a civil conversation with until yesterday. Come to think of it, she still doesn't think they've actually had a civil conversation, but the fact that they’ve seen each other half naked has to count for something, surely?

 

She's still debating on what to write, if anything, when there's another buzz, and she can imagine the cocky grin that must have been on his face as he'd typed  _ thinking about it? _ and she decides that two can play at that game.

 

By the time she's finished typing she's pretty sure her face must be as red as a tomato, and she feels almost drunk, and if things don’t go to plan then she can always blame this on the alcohol later even though she's only had a glass and a half of wine. Her hands are shaking as she sends him a message that reads  _ Actually, I was thinking about how thick you felt in my hand, and imagining how you would feel inside of me _ , and when she reads the message back she's shocked at herself, shocked at how direct she's being in her approach. 

 

She’s not so naive; she knows there’s nothing particularly outrageous about her reply, not in comparison to what others might say anyway. But she’s never felt able to voice her thoughts and desires in this way; never felt able to say what she wants without fear of being judged, of being thought of as unladylike. 

 

With Haymitch though, Effie gets the distinct impression that he has no interest whatsoever in whether she acts like a ‘lady’ or not. He hadn't seemed appalled when she'd asked him to touch her, or when she'd asked him to pump his fingers faster inside of her; quite the opposite in fact. And for the life of her, Effie cannot remember the last time she actually felt confident enough, safe enough to ask for what she wanted. She can't remember the last time that getting what she wanted was as easy as asking, and it seems that somewhere down the line she'd just stopped asking altogether, instead taking what she was given and making it work. 

 

The sound of her phone pulls Effie from her reverie, and she hadn't thought it possible but she feels the blush on her cheeks intensify when she reads  _ Fuck. I'm thinking of how fucking good you'd taste. I bet you taste better than whisky _ . 

 

There's the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips as she types her response  _ It would be rude of me not to extend an invitation for you to visit, since you were such a gracious host last night. And again this morning _ and she bites down on her lip as she presses send, unable to stop the shiver of arousal that runs through her body at the thought of seeing him again. 

 

Almost immediately after sending the text it suddenly hits Effie that, while she's been in Haymitch's home a few times now, he's never actually set foot through her front door. She'd spent a while cleaning the house earlier in the day, but that had just been cleaning to pass the time, with no clear plan or schedule. Now, there's the prospect of someone, of  _ Haymitch, _ coming into her home and possibly being there for a prolonged period of time, and maybe even being in her bedroom, and that requires another level of cleaning  _ entirely _ .

 

The bottle of wine that she's been drinking is only half full, and so Effie starts by making sure that there's another bottle of red opened, leaving it to breathe on the kitchen counter. She's pretty sure that Haymitch would prefer something stronger, whisky if their previous encounter is anything to go by, but she's also pretty sure that he's not the type of man to pass up a drink, so wine will have to do. 

 

She leaves the kitchen and makes her way into the bedroom, placing the half full glass of wine down on top of a coaster on her dressing table. She strips the bed, remaking it with a cream cotton and silk bedding set that's been freshly laundered, smoothing down the corners until it's impeccably neat and without a crease in sight. She's not even sure if he'll see her bedroom tonight, but she figures that it's best to be prepared, just in case.

 

Even though she's on reliable birth control, she checks her bedside table for condoms, sighing with relief when she finds two left in the box. She's never heard Haymitch bring anyone home and he doesn't seem the type to sleep around. Despite how much he drinks, she thinks to herself somewhat judgmentally. But prior planning prevents poor performance and she would like a good performance here tonight.

 

It's been a good half hour since she left the couch, so she heads into the living room, picking up her phone from the coffee table and checking her notifications. There's no reply to her message, but she tells herself that maybe he's in the middle of a conversation with someone and unable to respond straight away. She imagines he's at a bar of some sort, probably a dive, and she wrinkles her nose as she imagines the conversations that must go on in a place like that, before deciding that that’s not really something she wants to think about right now.

 

It's only when she's cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, faucets and porcelain positively shining, that she starts to let herself worry. It's been over an hour since she sent that last text and she’s heard nothing from him since, and she’s trying not to pay any attention to the thoughts running through her mind telling her that he doesn't want her, that she'll never be quite good enough or pretty enough or funny enough, and she shakes her head in an effort to dispel the familiar voice that she can hear in her head.

 

 

It takes another half hour for Effie to admit defeat. It's clear that he's not going to call- that she's effectively been stood up by him- and the embarrassment is almost too much for her to bear. She can feel hot tendrils of shame creeping over her, mortification rising like a tide. He'd seemed interested, but it's also pretty likely that he'd had more than a few drinks at the time. Maybe his previous texts had been the alcohol talking; maybe he's sobered up enough to change his mind about her.

 

She opens up her phone and goes straight to her contacts list, debating whether or not she should delete his number now and put an end to this whole thing. Her finger hovers over his name for a full minute, but in the end she can't bring herself to do it; instead, she finds herself scrolling through the list until she's looking at Seneca's number. For a split second she thinks about texting him, before berating herself for even considering lowering herself just for a bit of male attention.

 

Besides; she's not even sure what she'd say.

 

She can't imagine Seneca being the type to send, or even appreciate receiving a suggestive text, and she certainly can't imagine him fantasising about tasting her. She can count on one hand the number of times he'd gone down on her over the course of their relationship, and he'd always been entirely too hesitant about the whole thing, lacking any enthusiasm. 

 

It's surprising, really, that it hadn't given her more of a complex. The first time he'd used his mouth on her, he'd stood up afterwards and made his way into the en suite to brush his teeth, and Effie had thought she'd die from the shame of it all, convinced there must be something wrong with her. It was only after seeing how uncomfortable he was with her on top and a particularly memorable occasion when she'd instinctively leaned in to kiss him after going down on him and he'd physically recoiled, that she'd realised that Seneca's only issue was...well, Seneca.

 

Effie sighs and puts her phone on the coffee table out of reach. She's wasted enough time thinking about one man tonight; she won't waste a minute longer on another. She'll finish her glass of wine, possibly pour herself another, and then she'll go to sleep. She'll wake up in the morning and go about her day as normal, and she'll try her very best to forget all about her serious lapse in judgement. Yes. That's what she'll do. She almost manages to convince herself that it'll be easy.

  
  
She goes to bed with the sound of her mother's voice ringing in her ears. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clearing up some misunderstandings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be more smut.

On Sunday morning Effie wakes up after nine, uncharacteristically late for her but it's probably due to the fact that she hasn't exactly had a restful night’s sleep, tossing and turning well into the early hours of the morning. After she's worked out on the elliptical for an hour she takes a boiling hot shower before sitting down to a late breakfast of a sliced banana, a scoop of yoghurt and exactly one quarter of a cup of granola. Once she's finished and made sure the kitchen is completely tidy with worktops wiped down and bowl washed and put away, she moves to her desk, opens up her laptop and works for five hours straight, ignoring the instructions from her boss that she should get away from work for the weekend. She needs something,  _ anything _ to take her mind away from how completely mortified she feels after last night, and somehow she doesn't think that a romantic Christmas movie is the best idea right now.

 

She can't believe she'd actually fooled herself into thinking that this thing between Haymitch and herself had the potential to become something real. Evidently, she's built it up far too much in her head, has read into things too much. He'd probably spent his night laughing about her texts with the reprobates at the bar, and the thought of how stupid, how utterly foolish she’s been has her banging her fist on her desk.  The sound startles her almost as much as the uncharacteristic gesture . She's clearly nothing more than a source of amusement for him when boredom strikes. She should never have allowed herself to get her hopes up.

 

She looks at her laptop and sighs. She's rewritten the same sentence three times now, made a mistake on the figures more than once. She moves her hands away from the keyboard as she realises that it's probably time to leave work alone for the day. She presses save and closes her laptop before making her way through to the kitchen.

 

She opens her refrigerator and it becomes immediately apparent that she's going to have to go shopping today. She would usually have gone on Saturday, but well, she hadn't exactly had a usual Saturday so a trip to Whole Foods had been the last thing on her mind.  She'll need to change her clothes and fix her hair and face before she leaves the house, and so she closes the fridge and makes her way into the bedroom. 

 

She takes off her comfy sweater and yoga pants and opens her wardrobe, pulling out a grey sweater dress which she teams with a pair of thick black tights. She ties her hair back, deciding that it's late enough in the day to get away with a messy updo just this once. Then she sits down in front of her mirror and applies her makeup; nothing too dramatic or over the top, just enough so that she feels comfortable, so that she feels like herself. And really, it's not like her to go a whole day without wearing makeup, even if she is just at home. The importance of appearances, of showing the world her best self, has been drilled into her head by her mother for as long as she can remember, and the thought of letting anyone see her like this, stripped down and bare, is unthinkable.

 

On her way out, she steps into a pair of boots before picking up her keys from the coffee table, walking to her car and pulling out of the driveway as quickly as she can while still adhering to proper road safety guidelines.

 

All of the radio stations seem the be playing Christmas songs and Effie turns up the volume and tries her best to get into the Christmas spirit. She's bought almost all of her Christmas presents and half of them are wrapped already, so she tries to busy her mind with thoughts of the last minute things she needs to buy over the next week or so to complete her preparations. It works, and before she knows it she's pulling up into the parking lot and making her way into the store.

 

She takes her time browsing the aisles, and by the time she reaches the wine section she's got a healthy selection of fruits and vegetables in her cart, along with some chicken breast and fresh fish. She selects a malbec and a rioja, and then decides to throw caution to the wind and picks up a bottle of chardonnay too. It's not like her mother's here to judge her.

 

The sun is starting to set as she makes her way out of the sliding doors, and she'd usually take the time to appreciate the view, but instead she just packs her bags into the trunk of the car and starts the journey home. When she arrives back it's dark, and she hurries to her front door, the sensor light outside her door flickering to life as she lets herself in.

 

Effie puts the groceries away slowly and pours herself a glass of wine, chuckling mirthlessly as she realises that she's probably consumed more alcohol over the course of this weekend than she usually would in two weeks. It's probably also significantly upped her calorie intake, and the thought has her frowning before she pushes it to the back of her mind, resolving to put in an extra hour on the elliptical tomorrow to make up for it.

 

She briefly considers going back to her laptop and trying to get some more work done, but she's going to have enough of a telling off tomorrow as it is when her boss sees just how much of a start she's made on the figures. She abandons the idea, instead making her way into the living room and turning on the Christmas tree lights. The room is bathed in soft, red light-- _ the only proper colour for Christmas lights, Euphemia _ \-- and it is suddenly cozy, comforting. She sinks down onto the sofa and lets her head tip back as her eyes flutter shut for a blissful moment.

 

She lets herself relax for a few minutes, silence filling the air around her, and she's debating whether or not she should go and change into her pyjamas before she gets too comfortable here when there's a knock at the door. Effie frowns slightly as she turns her head to look. She's not sure who could be knocking at her door at seven on a Sunday evening, and she gets up slowly before walking across the room, the knock sounding again as she comes to a stop in front of the door.

 

“Who is it?” she calls cautiously, her hand resting against the cool wood as she waits for a response.

 

“It's me...uh, Haymitch,” comes the muffled response, and Effie's spine stiffens, her fingers tightening around the glass of wine in her hand until she's afraid it might crack under the pressure.

 

“What,” she starts, her voice cracking and so she clears her voice and continues, “what do you want?”

 

“I want--I mean, I wanted to... Christ, princess, can you just let me in? I can't have this conversation through a fucking door,” he responds. It almost sounds like a plea, and Effie's hand is reaching for the door before she can think better of it.

 

Effie stands in the doorway, watching as Haymitch sways on his feet, and were it not for the slight shiver that shakes his shoulders, she’d think he was drunk. She steps back, alarmed at the look on his face, unsure what to make of it. Her heart’s beating rapidly, though she can’t say why, and he stares at her, swallowing nervously. It’s a moment before she remembers her manners and steps further into the apartment, raising her palm in offering. 

 

“Come in, please. It’s cold tonight,” she murmurs. And it is; her feet are cold even in her tights, and she hopes he makes up his mind soon, lest they both catch a chill. He steps in the doorway and she shuts the door with a click, turning to regard him as he stands there somewhat hesitantly. 

 

“Nice carpet,” he compliments, and while it is a lovely carpet--thick and white and expensive--the statement seems so incongruous in comparison to their previous interactions that it makes her pause. Maybe he’s nervous. The thought strikes her, and she reels. Haymitch Abernathy, nervous? The thought is so ridiculous that she almost wants to laugh.

 

Effie steps forward, ready to take his coat, but he’s already shrugging off it off and dangling it awkwardly on his arm as he looks around the room.

 

“Um, would you like a drink, Haymitch?” Effie asks, desperate to fill the awkward silence that suddenly fills the room, but he doesn't answer her question, instead looking up so that his eyes meet hers as he starts to speak.

 

“I, uh...I came here to explain what happened last night. About your text, and why uh...” he trails off, and Effie can feel embarrassment starting to creep into her body. He obviously thinks he needs to tell her face to face that he's not interested, and she doesn't think she can deal with that right now.

 

“Oh, no please, Haymitch, let's not...let's not talk about that. You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she rushes out, and she hopes that this will put an end to it, so that she can start to put this whole incident behind her.

 

Haymitch looks at her blankly for a moment and she feels the blush on her cheeks intensify. She grabs the jacket from his arms and turns around to hang it up, and she hopes he doesn't notice the way her hands are shaking slightly. She's trying to think of something to say,  _ anything _ to shift the focus away from  _ this _ , when the sound of his voice startles her. “You sure as hell didn't make me uncomfortable, and I  **_want_ ** to explain,” he says, and she turns around slowly to face him.

 

“Got pretty wasted last night...Christmas isn't the best time for me,” he mumbles, his hand reaching around to rub the back of his neck somewhat sheepishly, and Effie knows there's a story there, knows there's something deeper beneath the surface, but she also knows that it's not the time to ask questions. He continues, “Plus I barely ever use the phone, haven't charged it in a while so the battery on that thing died pretty fucking quickly. I didn't see your message until I woke up and charged it this afternoon. Definitely kicked myself for missing that.”

 

He almost growls when he says the last part, and Effie can feel the heat rising on her cheeks, a shy smile tugging at her lips before she can stop it.

 

“This afternoon?” she asks, and there's a slight teasing tone to her voice, something which Haymitch picks up on straight away if the raise of his head from where it's been tipped downwards is anything to go by.

 

“It was by the time I surfaced. Like I said; I was pretty damn wasted.”

 

“I thought maybe you weren't interested after all,” she confesses, and her voice sounds shy, meek even to her own ears.

 

“Jesus Christ, of course I'm fucking interested,” he says exasperatedly, and he steps forward and suddenly there's no more than a breath of space between the two of them, and Effie feels her chest contract at the proximity. His hands cautiously reach out, and when she makes no objection, he rests them on her hips, pulling her forward slightly so that she can feel his chest brushing against hers. Her nipples harden at the slightest hint of contact with him. His breath is hot against her face, and she looks up to meet his gaze as she brings her hands up to gently rest on his forearms.

 

“Do you still want this?” he asks, and Effie realises that this is it. She could tell him that he's burned his bridges, ask him to leave. Despite his assurances that he's not an alcoholic, he clearly relies on alcohol a bit too much, and he definitely leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to 'romance' and she knows that realistically, her life would be easier without him in it. 

 

Or she could do the opposite. Give into what she actually wants without thought of what's  _ proper _ for once in her life, and ask him to stay. She musters of all her courage, all of the bravery that she's still not quite sure she possesses, and then she speaks.

 

“I told you before. I want this--I want you,” she breathes as she brings her arms up to loop around his neck, her chest pressing against his and eliminating any space that may have remained between them. His hands grasp her hips more firmly and he tilts his head down so that his lips meet hers in a passionate kiss. 

 

They stay that way for a while; Haymitch's tongue is massaging hers, and his hands have shifted slightly to stroke across the top of her ass, and she can hear the little sighs that are escaping her mouth with every swipe of his tongue against hers. 

 

He shifts his leg slightly and suddenly his knee is between her thighs, pressing against her tightly, and she can't remember the last time anyone got her this riled up so quickly. His hands are still on her ass, moving steadily lower until they grip her over her dress and pull her forward, and the soft slide of her center across his knee has her moaning into his mouth.

 

She almost thinks about moving them to the bedroom, but she's sure that if she does, they're going to end up having sex. It's not that she doesn't want to have sex with him; she probably wants it more than she should. But she's still feeling vulnerable after last night, and there's a voice in the back of her head reminding her that it's only been two days since they first kissed, and nice girls don't take men to bed after two days.

 

Instead, she urges him backwards to the sofa, letting him push her back until his weight rests on top of her, and she has the brief thought that nice girls don't do this either, but she can't bring herself to care. Not when his tongue is sliding against hers, and his knee is shifting to press between her thighs again, and she can feel his hardness against her leg.

 

She doesn't want him to think that she's leading him on, and so she breaks away from the kiss and tries to catch her breath. “I know what I said yesterday, and I do want this, but--no sex tonight. That is--I don't want you to think that--I mean, we can still...” she breaks off, mentally chastising herself for her inability to even string a simple sentence together.

 

Haymitch seems to sense her frustration, because he's bringing his hands up to hesitantly touch her face, his thumbs brushing the corners of her mouth before he starts to speak. “Sweetheart, shut up. Whatever you want,” he murmurs, and when he kisses her again, Effie can't stop the smile that plays at her lips.

 

His knee is still pressed up against her, but he's stopped moving, as if he's unsure of just how far she wants to go after her little speech. She shifts her hips under his so that she presses against him more firmly and then she repeats the motion, stuttering out a breath when he starts to grind his knee against her with gusto.

 

She's content to let him carry on like that for a few minutes, but before long her dress starts to scratch uncomfortably against her stomach, and her breasts are crying out for some attention, and so she breaks the kiss and reaches down, pulling her dress up and over her head in one swift movement. She lets it drop the the floor, resisting the urge to fold it up properly, and when she looks at Haymitch she finds that his eyes are riveted on her lacy white bra.

 

“Jesus Christ! Do you wear stuff like this every day under those boring clothes? Even when you're just sitting in the house?” he exclaims, and Effie knows she should feel offended at the fact that he's just called her dress sense boring, but she's more focused on the fact that he's clearly enjoying what's underneath.

 

“Every day. Do you like it?” she asks coyly, nerves pooling in the pit of her stomach even though she already knows what his response is going to be.

 

“Do they match?” he asks, and Effie pauses for a second, unsure of what he's talking about until she looks down and sees the thick black fabric of her tights obscuring the lower half of her body from his view.

 

“They always match,” she replies huskily, and Haymitch curses quietly as he starts to trace patterns on her stomach with his fingertips, stopping right above the waistband of the tights. She brings her hands down to join his, and he unsuccessfully tries to muffle a groan when she bats his hands out of the way and peels the tights down her legs.

 

He's quiet above her for a few seconds, and she resists the urge to cross her arms over herself because although she's still in her underwear, it's not exactly providing her with much cover from the scrutiny of his gaze. But then he dips his head down, dropping little kisses along her neck as his hands resume their stroking against her stomach. When he reaches the bottom of her neck he sucks the skin into his mouth, and Effie knows she should protest, knows he's going to leave a mark that she's going to spend all morning trying to cover, but all that leaves her mouth is a quiet moan of his name.

 

When he reaches her breasts, he kisses a line along the edge of her bra before following the route he's just taken with a hot lick of his tongue. He pays the same attention to her other breast, and then Effie reaches behind her back and unhooks the clasp of her bra. She pulls it off and lets it fall somewhere beside the sofa. Immediately, he's on her, flicking his tongue against her in a way that has her hips shifting up in an effort to seek some friction. Haymitch must notice this because he gives one last firm lick to her nipple before shifting his head slightly to look at her.

 

“Are you wet?” he asks gruffly, his stubble rasping against her nipple in a way that has her hands flying to his hair and clutching so hard that she's worried for a moment that she must be hurting him.

 

“Y--yes, I'm so...” she manages to splutter out, licking her lips and composing herself as much as is possible in her current state before continuing, “I'm so wet, Haymitch. For you.”

 

Her admission has him uttering a low “ _ Fuck! _ ” and then he turns his head and takes her nipple between his teeth as he trails his hand down to rub her firmly through her panties. She widens her legs slightly, and on the next pass of his fingers, the lace rubs directly over her clit and her mouth drops open on a wordless cry.

 

She's feeling particularly brave all of a sudden, and she's not sure if it's because of the glass of wine she'd almost finished before he arrived or if it's just because of him, but she feels bold when she speaks her next words. “I want you to do what we talked about in the text. When you--when you said you wanted to taste me,” she whispers, and his hardness presses against her leg as a guttural sound escapes his mouth. He gives her nipple one last deep suck that leaves her gasping below him, before scooting down, trailing wet kisses along the skin of her stomach until his mouth is resting at the edge of the white lace.

 

She thinks he's going to tease her, that he's going to make her beg, but she's pleasantly surprised when he simply pulls away the sodden lace until she's bare before him. His thumbs trace the skin of her thighs, urging them further apart, and when he blows a stream of air directly over where she's warm and aching for him she lets her legs fall open, her left foot coming to rest on the floor.

 

His fingers dance along her soft skin, moving higher and higher as he drops soft kisses across her belly, leaving goosebumps in his wake and Effie has to bite down on her bottom lip to stop herself from moaning aloud. 

 

Haymitch pauses and looks up at her. “Don't be quiet. There's no one here to hear me but you. And I want to hear you,” he says, and then he dips his head and licks a line across the join of her hip and thigh. Her next moan is louder, less restrained, and Haymitch carries on with his descent until he's pressing a kiss right above her clit. He stays there for a few seconds, his lips pressed against her and then he's finally moving, running his tongue across her aching clit, and Effie whimpers slightly as her hips jerk up towards him.

 

Effie threads her fingers into his hair and drags her nails across his scalp lightly as he repeats the action, and when his thumbs move up to spread her slightly, her eyes flutter shut of their own accord. It’s been a while since she’s found herself in this position, and she’s not used to feeling so exposed, so she has to will herself to stay calm and resist the urge to shy away from him. She whines softly as he starts to alternate between long licks and quick flicks of his tongue, and then she feels his fingers stroking through her wet heat and that whine turns into a gasp of his name. She's so distracted that she almost doesn't hear him when he starts to speak.

 

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs as he slides his finger inside of her, coating it with her wetness and withdrawing, before sinking two fingers back inside. 

 

It takes her a moment to process his words, and when she does she's confused. “I--What do you mean?” she asks, and she sounds breathless, as if she's just spent an hour on the treadmill.

 

“Your tits. I want you to touch your tits while I eat you out,” he says, and Effie feels herself grow impossibly hotter at his request, simultaneously shocked and excited by the vulgarity of his words. She's pretty sure that her cheeks must be bright red, and she opens her mouth to speak before closing it quickly, unsure of how to respond. This is--that is, no one's ever asked her to...

 

Haymitch must notice her lack of response, because he looks up and regards her carefully. “Something wrong?” he asks, his tone teasing, and Effie feels even more colour rising to the surface of her cheeks. He must sense that she's nervous, because he props himself up on his free arm and looks her in the eye. “Listen sweetheart; I'm not asking for a show. But we’re partners in this. I can’t be the only one doing all of the work.” Effie takes a deep breath and hesitantly brings her hands up to cup her breasts.

 

Her touch is hesitant at first, the tips of her fingers barely touching the surface of her heated skin as she skims the edges of her breasts. Haymitch is watching her intently and she squirms for a moment under the heat of his gaze before closing her eyes when her fingers finally come into contact with her sensitive nipples. She keeps her touch light at first and it's nice, it's pleasant, but it's not enough. She needs more, and so she swallows any remaining trepidation and cups both of her breasts in her hands, grasping her nipples and rolling them firmly in tandem. She lets out a soft  _ Oh! _ at the feeling, releasing her fingers so that she can flick her thumb against her nipple softly before repeating the motion.

 

He watches her for a minute. His fingers are still moving languidly in and out but his mouth is hovering over her clit as his eyes remain fixated on her hands on her breasts. “Haymitch, please,” she gasps, and that seems to break the spell. He brings his tongue back down tracing a lazy circle around the edges of her clit before flicking his tongue against it, and she realises he's mimicking the way she's touching her breasts.

 

She whines helplessly, one of her hands abandoning her breast and moving down to grip his hair, clutching his head against her wet heat as her hips rock against the movement of his tongue. His fingers speed up to match the rhythm of his tongue, and they're thumping in and out of her steadily now, drawing gasps of pleasure from her on each inward thrust. Her nipple is trapped between her thumb and her forefinger and she's squeezing it rhythmically in time with his thrusts, and it's like there's a current of electricity zinging in her body, and it's too much, it's too much and not enough all at the same time, and she needs something,  _ something _ …

 

“I need--your mouth, Haymitch, I-- _ please _ ,” she gasps, the end of her sentence trailing off when he curls his fingers just so.

 

“Need what? Tell me what you want me to do, Effie,” he says, and once again, it's the sound of her name on his lips that does it.

 

“My--my clit, will you--oh god, suck it, Haymitch, please,” she pleads, and she knows she's begging but she's too far gone to care, and she's so close,  _ so so _ close, if only he'd just...

 

Haymitch wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and Effie's climax crashes over her like a wave. Her hips buck up against his face, and she's dimly aware that she's panting his name like it's some sort of mantra and she's not usually so unrestrained, not usually so wanton, but his fingers are still gliding in and out of her, and his mouth is on her clit, and she can feel him  _ everywhere _ .

 

Effie pushes his head away when it all gets to be too much and he gives one last lick to her clit, and her body shivers in response. He drops a kiss to the skin of her belly and props himself up on his elbows as he makes his way up her body, stopping when his lips hover over hers.

 

She reaches up and threads her fingers through his hair, pulling him down into a clumsy kiss. She can taste herself on his lips, and the noise she makes could probably be classified as a whimper, but she's too far gone to care. She slides her tongue against his, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that has him thrusting his hips against her, and it's then that she realises he's still fully dressed.

 

Her hands leave his hair and travel down to grip the edges of his shirt, and she tugs slightly as she breathes, “Take this off?” He pulls back to look at her quizzically. “I'm not--I don't want to be the only one naked,” she explains falteringly, before adding, “And I want to--I want to see all of you this time.”

 

Something flashes in Haymitch's eyes, but then he nods his head and sits back on his knees. He pulls the shirt off and over his head and Effie's eyes are immediately drawn to the scar on his stomach. It's jagged and painful looking, and it's running straight across something that looks suspiciously like a badly healed gunshot wound. She wants to know; wants to ask what happened to him, and how, but she knows that this is most definitely not the time, and so she bites back the question that threatens to escape from her lips. Instead, she brings her hands up to rest over the fly of his jeans. She can feel his hardness through the thick denim, and she's struck again with the memory of him thick and hot in her palm. She briefly wishes that she hadn't insisted on no sex tonight, before banishing that thought from her mind. There are other ways she can please him.

 

His comment about wanting her to be an active participant has stuck in Effie’s mind, and she wants to show him that she's interested in this; that she’s interested in him. She sits up slowly and shifts so that she's kneeling in front of him and matching his position, moving one of her hands down to steady herself. The other remains at the front of his pants; not moving or even touching really, just resting against his hardness. She leans forward and he moans when the tips of her breasts brush against his bare chest. He dips his head and presses his lips against hers, and she nips at his bottom lip before letting her tongue come out to massage his. His hands stroke down her back until they reach her ass and he hauls her against him, the hard length of his cock pressing against her belly.

 

Effie lets herself get lost in the kiss. His hands are kneading her ass in a way that makes her wish he would slip his fingers between her thighs again, and her nipples are hard against his chest, and she feels surrounded by his warmth. She lets things carry on for a few minutes and she's loathe to stop, but she's about thirty seconds from throwing caution the the wind and jumping on him, and that's not the way she'd planned this evening to go. She breaks the kiss reluctantly and untangles her hands from his hair.

 

“Lie back,” she whispers, and he groans and grips her ass as he presses himself against her more firmly, and she thinks he might have worked out where she's going with this. She rests her hand against his chest and pushes slightly and he gets the hint, leaning back and arranging himself so that Effie's kneeling between his thighs and his head is supported on the arm of the sofa. His eyes are flicking between her face and her chest, and she can feel that telltale blush spreading across her chest, so she ducks her head and drops a quick kiss to his lips. She doesn't linger; instead she lets her mouth trail softly along the line of his jaw, travelling lower until she reaches his neck. She presses soft kisses there, and her tongue peeks out of her mouth to lick a line across the slightly salty skin as her hands flutter against his stomach. She skims across the scar that stretches halfway across, and she thinks she feels him tense slightly beneath her, but she doesn't comment. 

 

Instead, Effie continues past the scar, flattening her hands against his stomach and slowly sliding them up and across his chest as she presses a line of kisses down his sternum. She kisses past his navel, her nails lightly scratching back down his chest, until her hands and her mouth are both resting at the edge of his pants. She manages to undo the button of his jeans, to pull the fly down, and he helps her push the jeans and his boxers down his hips and off his legs until he's just as naked as she is.

 

He's fitter than she'd first thought. He's not an Adonis, by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn’t have a beer belly as she might have imagined, and the muscles in his thighs are strong. It's clear that he's probably led an active lifestyle in the not so distant past, even if he doesn't seem to be all that active at the moment. His cock is hard and just as thick as she remembers, and before she can stop herself, Effie licks her lips. Haymitch must catch sight of the movement because there’s a hitch in his breath, and if he hadn't been sure of her intentions before, well he definitely is now.

 

She scoots down the sofa until her head is between his thighs and she decides that she's not going to make him wait for her touch. She wants him incoherent, and she thinks that maybe she'd like to hear him say her name again, so she leans forward and licks a firm line from the base of his cock to the tip.

 

“Oh fuck,” he groans, and she feels one of his hands touching her head. She has a brief moment of panic when she wonders if he's going to try and shove her head down, and she bites her lip because she doesn't know how to tell him that she's not--that that's not really her thing. But his hand just strokes over her hair, collecting the strands that have escaped from her updo and pulling them away from her face softly, and she flushes when she realises he wants to look at her face while she does this.

 

She licks him again, her hand gripping the base of his cock as her tongue flicks across the tip, collecting the beads of moisture that have gathered there. He grunts above her and she wraps her mouth around him, sucking him into her mouth and taking in more of his cock on each downward bob of her head. He's looking at her intently, mouth slightly open and his eyes darkened with lust, and she keeps her gaze fixed on him, fighting the impulse to look away.

 

Her other hand slips between his thighs to massage his balls, and his hips jerk upwards. Effie feels his cock hit the back of her throat and she splutters around him, pulling backwards so that he slips from her mouth as she tries to regulate her breathing.

 

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Haymitch gasps, his hand coming down to smooth across her cheek. “Didn't mean to do that, you just-- you feel so fucking good. I won't do it again.”

 

He sounds as if he's genuinely sorry, not like he's willingly tried to push her boundaries, and she smiles softly as she says, “It's ok.”

 

Her hand is still resting on him, so she grips him lightly, making a fist around his cock as she starts to stroke him softly. He thrusts up into her slick hand and she gives a few more lazy pumps before lowering her head once more. She flutters her tongue against the head of his cock before pressing soft kisses and wet licks along the length of his shaft, and he's groaning her name by the time she parts her lips and takes him into her mouth.

 

She sucks him firmly, swirling her tongue against him and taking more of his cock with each downward bob. It only takes a few minutes before he's groaning out a warning that he's about to come, but she carries on bobbing her head, one hand gripping the base of his cock while her other hand rests on his stomach. He cries out when he comes, a string of curse words and gasps of her name, and she keeps sucking him softly until she feels him starting to soften. She releases him from her mouth, licking her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as delicately as she can manage. She’s wondering what to do next, unsure of which boundaries are in place when his hands close around her arms, hauling her up so that her chest is flush against his. His lips meet hers in a lazy kiss, and he shifts so that they're lying side by side and stretched along the sofa.

 

“Glad I came to apologise now?” Haymitch murmurs against her lips, and Effie huffs out a laugh as she opens her eyes to look at him.

 

“I suppose so,” she agrees. His arm is draped over her, and his fingers are tracing over the heated skin of her lower back, and it's almost as if they're cuddling. She feels safe, and warm, and comfortable, but she also feels as though he's going to pull back and put some distance between them at any minute. She presses the palm of her hand against his chest lightly and disentangles herself from his arms, moving so that she's perched precariously on the edge of the sofa.

 

She turns her head to look at him and paints a confident smile on her face before opening her mouth to speak. “Well, that was fun. But I have work tomorrow, and I have a lot to get ready, so...” she trails off awkwardly.

 

“Kicking me out so soon, sweetheart?” he chuckles, making no effort to cover himself up, and Effie wills herself to hold his gaze. Her stomach flutters in response to his words, and she's half tempted to ask him to stay. But she doesn't want to overstep any invisible lines that have been drawn, and it's probably safer for both of them if he leaves.

 

She stands up and retrieves her dress. “Of course I'm not kicking you out. You're more than welcome to stay, but I shall be otherwise engaged. I have things to prepare for a meeting tomorrow,” she says, pointedly not looking at him in the hope that he doesn’t hear the lie.

 

“Okay, okay, I'm leaving,” he snorts, reaching down to grab his clothes from where they're resting on the floor. Effie pulls her dress on over her head and rises to her feet to wait for Haymitch as he pulls his clothes on leisurely. Once he's half decent, Effie makes her way over to the doorway and Haymitch follows, coming to a stop to stand in front of her on the threshold. She leans up on her tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss against his lips and he deepens it immediately, his mouth moving against hers as his hand comes to rest dangerously low on her back.

 

She breaks the kiss with a sigh, brushing her lips against his one last time before reaching past him to open to door. “See you soon,” she says, her voice breathy and hopeful despite her plans to play this cool.

 

“I'll keep my phone charged,” he says, before adding in a teasing tone, “You're good with your fingers.” He mimics texting but his smirk hints that he’s thinking of something else.

 

He turns and steps into the cold, missing the blush that reappears on Effie's face at his remark. She watches him go, and he's almost out of sight when she calls out into the cold night, “I've got drinks with colleagues on Thursday. Bu-- but I'm free on Friday.”

 

“Well what do you know...so am I,” he replies, grinning at her before turning and rounding the corner.

 

  
The smile remains on Effie's face long after she's shut the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, and thank you to Whyitworksalsohow for all of your help with this chapter!

Monday and Tuesday pass in a blur of meetings, spreadsheets and expense forms, the end of year rush hitting its peak before it inevitably starts to wind down at the end of the week. Effie tries not to get too stressed; she’s done plenty of work behind the scenes to ensure that nobody falls behind, and there have been no major incidents so far. Still, she finds herself taking calming breaths on more than one occasion, despite the fact that the same thing happens every year with no issue. She keeps reminding herself that it’ll all be worth it come the Christmas break. A whole week where she doesn’t have to think about anything to do with work. It’s not that she hates her job; not at all. She likes her job, and she likes her boss, but she’d be a fool not to enjoy a week's vacation.

 

On Wednesday she leaves the office late. The sky is pitch black and so she hurries to her car, thankful that she’d had the foresight this morning to park it near the light. She’s making her way to her door when she sees Haymitch rounding the corner, hands shoved into his coat pockets and collar turned up against the chill. Her mouth starts to turn up into a grin and then she gets herself under control, instead smiling at him softly when he looks up and his eyes meet hers. He looks as if he might be smiling back, but Effie can’t be sure in the darkness, and so she carries on walking towards him until they meet near her doorway.

 

“Bet you’re rocking the sexy secretary look under that coat, sweetheart,” he says, his mouth turning up into a smirk, and Effie bites back to urge to smirk right back.

 

“For the last time Haymitch, I’m not a secretary, I’m a PA,” she rebukes him, but there’s no reproach to her words, not really, and he only smirks wider. “I’m wearing a blouse and a skirt; perfectly acceptable office attire.”

 

“I’m teasing. I saw you putting your coat on outside the car,” he laughs, adding, “And I saw your shirt. Nice bow.”

 

“Yes, well. It’s a pussybow blouse. The clue is rather in the name, Haymitch.”

 

He barks out a laugh, and Effie’s momentarily confused until he says, “A pussy--nice, princess,” and she feels the smallest hint of a blush working its way up her neck.

 

She has the sudden urge to kiss him; to step forward and loop her arms around her neck, to feel his chapped lips brushing against her own. She thinks he must be thinking the same thing, because he steps forward slightly, and she wonders if he’s going to kiss her. She decides that if he kisses her, she’ll invite him in. She’ll let him slip the blouse off her shoulders, and then she’ll take off his clothes and taste the secrets that lie beneath.

 

But he doesn’t kiss her. He just looks at her lips for a fraction of a second too long and then drags his eyes back up to meet hers. “I won’t keep you. As you said, you’ve got a busy, busy week,” he says teasingly, and Effie tries to ignore the pang of disappointment that she feels in her chest. “See you Friday,” he adds, and that feeling of disappointment is quickly replaced by one of anticipation. He gives a mock salute as he leaves, and she watches him walk down the driveway, turning to unlock her door when he starts to make his way down the sidewalk.

 

When she goes to bed later that night, she falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, exhausted after the long day she's put in. She doesn't dream, but she wakes up thinking of calloused hands and tartan blankets.

 

On Thursday, Effie works through her lunch break, carrying out a final and thorough check of the documents that need to be submitted for the audit. The accounts are all in order, with no anomalies to be found. They’re just as she knew they would be, and she hands them over to her boss with a smile on her face and an assurance that they’ll be just fine. The mood in the office seems to lift as the afternoon progresses, and at six pm Effie finds herself joining a group of her coworkers as they make their way to the nearest bar. The thought of a glass of wine is definitely an appealing one; Effie can't deny that. Still, she tells herself, she'll stop at a couple of glasses. Tomorrow may be a day full of simple tasks now that the audit is over and the Christmas break is approaching, but Effie doesn't relish the idea of carrying out those tasks under the fog of a hangover. She can't imagine how Haymitch does it.

 

Effie manages to get seats together with Portia and Cinna, and she breathes a soft sigh of relief at the realisation that she can be herself for the next couple of hours. It's not that she doesn't get on with her other coworkers; they're perfectly pleasant people, and she has no problem engaging in small talk with them in the office. But she's never felt completely comfortable around them. There's no glaring reason that she should feel this way; none of them have ever said or done anything remotely untoward to her. She's just always felt like she needs to try just a bit too hard, as if being herself would just result in disappointment for everyone involved.

 

But Portia and Cinna are different. They both seem to have a way of putting everyone around them immediately at ease, and Effie has never felt obligated to be anybody but herself when she's around either of them. And that’s a rarity in itself.

 

So she tries her best to let go of the tension in her shoulders, making herself as comfortable as possible on the slightly squeaky chair, and she smiles and nods when Portia asks her if she'd like to share a bottle of wine.

 

Effie's finishing her second glass of wine when Brutus from accounts deposits a half full bottle on their table with the instruction that everyone needs to have a glass of what is apparently the office whisky. Effie has no intention of indulging, but she can't help but laugh when she looks at the bottle. It's been dressed up to look like a Christmas tree, and her thoughts immediately fly to Haymitch, and his apartment that's probably got a stockpile of whisky, but no Christmas tree to be seen.

 

Her phone is on the table and she's picking it up and finding his messages before she can stop herself. _Can I send you a picture?_ she types and presses send, topping up her glass so that it's half full. There's colour on her cheeks and she feels pleasantly warm, but she'll stop after she finishes this glass.

 

Her phone buzzes almost immediately in response, and she tries not to let her eagerness show when she opens her text to read what he's written. His, _Fuck. Yeah, send it, please_ has her wrinkling her nose slightly, unsure what exactly it is about her question that has provoked such a response. Still, she snaps a photo of the bottle and sends it to him, taking a sip of her wine as she waits for his reply. There's a few minutes lull while she waits, and she fills the time talking to Portia and Cinna about their respective plans for the holidays. They're picking at a plate of fries, and they'd both asked Effie if she wanted to share when they’d ordered, but she'd declined. The wine is going to her head slightly as a result of her refusal, but she'll be fine if she stops after this glass. It's nearing ten pm anyway, and they're going to be heading off soon.

 

She grabs her phone when it vibrates against the table, and she frowns slightly when she reads his response. _You're killing me, smalls._ She reads it again, trying and failing to decipher the meaning behind his words. When the realisation that he'd been expecting an entirely different sort of picture hits, she feels her face erupt in colour, and she bites her lip to try and distract herself from the heat she can feel on her cheeks. She looks up and sees Portia looking at her quizzically, and she clears her throat and takes another sip of her wine, trying to ignore the way that her hand is trembling slightly where it grips the glass.

 

 _Maybe you can see that for yourself tomorrow,_ she types, and she raises her head to see Cinna looking at her knowingly, a smirk on his face. “Just uh...just making some plans with a friend,” she says, with a wave of her hand that she knows isn't at all convincing.

 

“I bet you are,” he chuckles, and the flush that blooms on her chest has nothing at all to do with the wine.

 

Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she tries not to seem too eager as she looks down to read the message. His response of _You asking me on a date princess?_ has her pausing slightly. Cinna and Portia are still watching her with curious eyes, so she's careful not to frown, but she worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she types back, _I thought we already agreed to go out tomorrow night?_

 

Effie hits send, and she immediately worries that perhaps she's been too aggressive in her approach. His response comes almost immediately, and she feels herself deflate slightly when she reads, _I thought we were just going to eat takeout at your place?_ Still, she's as cheery as she can be in her response when she sends a message back, telling him that takeout will be fine, and that had she just wanted to check that plans were still in place.

 

She puts her phone down on the table and picks up her glass, turning her attention back to the conversation at hand. She hasn't heard a word that's been said in the last ten minutes, and she must seem incredibly rude, typing away on her phone and ignoring her companions. Her mother would certainly have something to say about _that_.

 

She hears her phone buzz a few minutes later, but she ignores it, choosing instead to listen to Portia talking about the presents she's bought for her nephews. She talks for a while about her Christmas plans, choosing to gloss over any details about her mother or food. Instead she talks about the decorations, and the presents, and how exciting everything will be for her sister's children.

 

She doesn't check her phone again until Portia has excused herself to go to the bathroom, and Cinna has made his way to the bar. There are two unread text messages. The first one reads, _7:30 ok? Do you like Middle Eastern food?_ followed by another that asks, _Or would you rather have some soul food? I know a lady that makes chicken and waffles out of her kitchen._

 

Effie thinks of the syrup, and the butter, and the _calories_ , and then she thinks of her mother, and the outfit she's picked out for Christmas day might be flattering, but there's only so much that can be hidden from her mother. She immediately fires off a quick text, telling Haymitch that Middle Eastern food is fine, and that she'll see him tomorrow at seven thirty.

 

She rides the metro back with Portia, and they share an Uber when they get to the station, both of them having indulged in far too many glasses of wine to drive. When she steps out of the car and makes her way up the drive, her eyes are immediately drawn to the light that's shining in the upstairs window. She briefly wonders whether she should go up and see Haymitch, before immediately discounting the idea. She's got a wax booked for tomorrow lunchtime, and besides; there's something to be said for absence making the heart grow fonder. Or maybe not the heart, in this case.

 

Friday morning drags, and it seems as though an age has passed when it's finally time for Effie to take her lunch. She rarely gets the chance to take lunch, and when she does it's never for a full hour, so it seems as if she's doing something entirely forbidden as she leaves the office and makes her way to the salon down the street.

 

As the beautician rips off the first wax strip, Effie winces slightly and thinks that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put this off until today. She's going to be red and blotchy and completely unsightly, and if she'd just planned her week better and called for the appointment sooner, then she could have avoided this problem altogether.

 

She's still worrying when she walks through her front door at exactly ten minutes past six, and she drops her bag on the sofa and immediately makes her way to the bathroom, pulling off her jacket as she goes. She'd had every intention of finishing a couple of hours early today, has put in enough late nights lately to be entitled to it, but a hold up with a shipment had had her frantically calling suppliers and sending hastily put together emails. She hadn't felt like she could leave until she'd known for sure that everything had been completely under control, and as a result, she's now got less than an hour and a half to get ready before Haymitch arrives.

 

Effie's just finished fastening her earrings when she hears a knock at her door. Her bedside clock reads 7:45, and she thinks that this is probably the first time in her life that she's ever been grateful to a date for arriving late. She checks her hair and makeup in the mirror one final time before leaving her bedroom and making her way over to the front door, taking deep breaths as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart in her chest.

 

She pauses when she reaches the door, and she takes a second to try to order the thoughts that are currently swarming in her head, and then she opens the door. Haymitch is standing there, takeout bag in hand and face slightly reddened from the cold, and she ushers him in before closing the door quickly behind him in an effort to keep the cold air out.

 

She takes the bag out of his hands with a smile and starts to walk over to the table, but she stops and turns to face him when she hears him chuckle.

 

“Let’s eat on the couch. We always end up there anyway. I'm just saving us a trip, princess,” he says with a smirk, and she can feel herself starting to get flustered at the meaning behind his words. She mulls the thought over for a few seconds before nodding somewhat stiffly and walking back over to where he's situated himself on the couch, placing the bag down onto the table in front of him.

 

Haymitch opens his container and picks up his fork ready to eat, stilling only when she clears her throat and murmurs, “Plates,” before making her way to the kitchen. If she has to eat her dinner from her lap, she'll at least eat it off a proper plate.

 

Effie's not used to eating her dinner on the couch; not when there's a perfectly good dining table just across the room, with proper placemats and matching coasters . But she balances her plate on her knee and picks up her fork, bringing a small mouthful of food to her lips and chewing cautiously. It's surprisingly good, and she turns to face Haymitch, intent on asking him which restaurant it's from. He's hunched over, his arms guarding the sides of his plate, and Effie feels her forehead crease as she regards him curiously.

 

“So,” she asks cheerily, putting her fork down to rest on her plate before continuing, “Where did you go to college?”

 

“Really, princess?” he snorts in response to her question, before bringing another forkful of food to his lips and humming in appreciation.

 

“It's an appropriate first date question!” she exclaims. She picks up her fork again, and she's just about to comment on the chicken when his next question stops her in her tracks.

 

“Is this is a first date then?” he queries, and Effie swallows the lump in her throat and lowers her gaze to the plate in front of her.

 

“Well--I mean--,” she starts, before trailing off, pushing the food around her plate as she deliberately avoids his gaze. She's overstepped _again,_ made him uncomfortable by asking too many questions. Ladies are supposed let their dates to all the talking, not interrogate them and put them on the spot.

 

She's desperately thinking of something to say, of anything to claw her way out of the hole that she seems to have dug herself into, when his voice breaks through her thoughts. “Didn't go to college. Dropped out to join the army,” he says gruffly, and _oh,_ she thinks to herself, that explains the scars.

 

“Thank you for your service,” she says softly, and Haymitch snorts again and mutters something unintelligible in response.

 

She's not sure how to respond to that; not sure what the correct response is, in a situation like this, and she's still holding her fork awkwardly in her hand as she looks at him. He must notice, because he motions towards her plate and says, “You gonna eat that, or what? Won't taste as good cold,” and his lips are turned up into something resembling a smile, and just like that, the mood lifts.

 

She chuckles lightly as she brings a forkful of food to her mouth, and they lapse into a comfortable silence for a few minutes as they eat. Effie only realises just how slowly she's been eating when Haymitch puts his empty plate down onto the coffee table, and she finishes the mouthful of food she's eating before placing her half full plate down next to his. His brow furrows slightly when he looks at the uneaten food but he doesn't comment, and Effie is thankful.

 

“So...the army?” she questions hesitantly, unsure of how much he'll want to talk about the subject.

 

“Where I come from, it's meth or the military, now that the mines are closed. And I wasn't smart enough to make meth,” he says with a humourless laugh.

 

Effie frowns in response to his answer. “But that's not true,” she argues as she turns to face him more fully, “I've seen the books in your apartment. You’re clearly very well read.”

 

He brushes off her comment with a shake of his head, shifting his body so that they're angled towards one another, their faces suddenly much closer than they had been before. “But then the re-enlistment bonuses dried up after Iraq, and...” he trails off, his gaze darkening slightly before he shakes his head almost imperceptibly and focuses on her face once more. “Besides, I got pretty fucking tired of people telling me what to do. You ever feel like that? Like you're some sort of fucking puppet?”

 

Effie opens her mouth to speak and then shuts it again almost immediately. She wants to tell him that she knows exactly what that feels like. To have every aspect of your life so tightly controlled by somebody else so that even after you've left, you're unsure whether your decisions are ever truly your own. She wants to tell him that she knows the feeling only too well, but she can't bring herself to say the words. To expose her weakness.

 

So she does the only thing she can think of; she kisses him.

 

Effie grips the collar of his shirt and pulls him towards her, rising up onto her knees and crashing their lips together with a ferocity she didn't know she was capable of until this very moment. She pours every single ounce of her pent up need into the kiss, and Haymitch groans against her mouth as his tongue slides against hers. His body molds to hers and he grazes his teeth over her bottom lip and she shivers in response. She feels a hot lick of arousal in her stomach as his fingers grasp her waist, and her nipples tighten at the feel of his chest pressing against hers. The heat of his palm is burning through the fabric of her dress, and when she breaks their kiss breathlessly, she looks at him and sees that his eyes are almost black. He's panting slightly, and she can feel him hardening against her stomach, and her knees are trembling under the effort of holding her body upright.

 

His hands are smoothing along the fabric of Effie's dress, causing it to ride further up her thighs on every pass of his hands, and she's about to tell him to go ahead and take it off, to take it all off, when his earlier words about this being a team effort come back to her. Her hands are shaking, but she brings them forward to rest at the front of his pants. She loosens his belt buckle and pops open the button of his jeans, dragging the zip down as slowly as she can manage and eliciting a harsh moan from Haymitch. He stands up and shoves his pants to the floor, stepping out of them hastily and then returning to the couch to kneel in front of her again.

 

She gets his shirt off with little effort, smoothing her hands down his chest until they ghost across the thin fabric covering his cock. Haymitch swallows visibly at her touch, before returning his hands to her waist, his thumbs rubbing over the soft fabric of her dress. She runs her hands back up to his chest, scratching him lightly with her nails on the way back down, and he makes a guttural noise low in his chest and bunches her dress in his hands.

 

“Take it off,” she breathes, and he grunts in approval, fingers eagerly reaching down and grabbing onto the hem, lifting it up and over her head and letting it fall onto the carpet beside them. She doesn't give him a chance to look down at what she's wearing; instead, her fingers grip the nape of his neck so that she can pull him towards her and bring their lips together once more.

 

His hands trail down her back, over the strap of her bra and down to the base of her spine and lower still, and he groans when his fingers encounter bare skin, the tiny scrap of lace doing little to cover her. He reaches down, hands smoothing over the curve of her ass, and pulls her to him more firmly, his cock fully hard against her belly. She presses back against him more firmly, rotating her hips slightly so that his hardness grinds against her stomach and he groans harshly into her mouth, his hips jerking slightly.

 

He kisses her for a few moments longer and then he's pulling away, urging her backwards onto the couch, and desire thrums low in her belly as she realises what he's got planned.

 

She lets herself fall back into the sofa as requested, the pillow cushioning her shoulders and providing her with a perfect view of Haymitch. He looks at her for a moment, his thumb stroking reverently along the dark green lace of her bra, and she can hear her own shallow breathing in her ears, her chest rapidly rising and falling under his gaze, and then he scoots down and presses a kiss to the swell of her breast. His hands come up to cup her breasts, and his thumbs brush over the lace that covers her hardened nipples.

 

One of his hands trails down her side, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and she feels the soft brush of his fingers against the damp lace that covers her centre at the same time as he shifts his head and sucks her lace covered nipple into his mouth. Her tongue peeks out to dampen her lips and she gasps as he rubs his fingers against her, the lace of her panties catching her clit in a way that has her toes curling and her back arching beneath him. Her legs fall open slightly, just enough so that the next stroke of his fingers lands directly on her clit, causing a muffled whimper of his name to escape her lips.

 

He scrapes his teeth against her nipple as he releases it from his mouth and her eyes flutter shut. His fingers are moving against her clit, and her bra is sodden and stuck to her sensitive skin, and she's half delirious from the intensity of it all, from the sheer magnitude of the craving she feels for him.

 

He grips the thin band of lace between his fingers and pulls it down slowly, as if giving her a chance to protest, but she simply raises her hips and watches him with hooded eyes, her mouth dry as he drags her panties down her thighs before depositing them on the floor.

 

He moves so that his face is hovering over her centre, and he lets his fingers gravitate back to where she's warm, and wet, and sensitive, and when he touches her again, it's skin to skin, no barriers left between her heat and his hands.

 

She feels feverish with need and _oh god_ , she's _aching_ for him, and she chokes back the sob that threatens to escape her lips when he pinches her clit lightly between his fingers. She can feel her wetness building, slick and slippery, and she's soaking, and if it were anyone else she'd be embarrassed, mortified even, but instead she just bites down on her lip and resists the urge to moan when he pushes her thighs even further apart.

 

She tries to speak, to tell him that this is what she wants, that this is what she _needs_ , but she can't concentrate, can't will her mouth to form the words; not when he's playing with her clit like that, his fingers swiping through her wetness and down, and _oh_...and slipping into her now, pumping slowly in and out as he presses a soft kiss and a sharp nip to her inner thigh.

 

“Please,” she gasps, and she feels his grin bloom against her skin and she's about to ask him to stop teasing for God's sake, but the rebuke dies on her trembling lips when he turns his head and his tongue finds her clit. His stubble rasps against her, and she makes a muffled noise of pleasure as thrusts two fingers inside of her heat. His tongue is flicking and fluttering across her clit mercilessly, and she's so wet, and it feels so good, and her hips rise up from the sofa in a bid to increase the friction but he pushes her back down again, his tongue abandoning her clit to swirl teasingly around the edges.

 

“Simmer down sweetheart. It's too nice a job to rush,” he chuckles, and he blows a cool stream of air over her throbbing clit. He slides his fingers steadily in and out, his movements slow and unhurried as he riles her up and brings her closer to that edge.

 

He parts her folds and licks a firm line up the length of her sex, and his fingers speed up their thrusts, and she feels as though she's drowning in the pleasure of it all. He looks up at her and she remembers how much he had liked it when she'd touched herself; when she'd stopped holding herself back and let go. She cups her breasts in her hands and breathes his name as she rubs her thumbs over her hardened nipples, and he rewards her with a low _fuck_ and a swipe of his tongue directly over her clit. He flicks his tongue against her once, twice, before closing his lips around her and sucking hard.

 

Her knees tremble slightly as a desperate cry leaves her lips, and she squeezes her nipples between her thumb and forefinger in time with the movement of his mouth. His fingers are pounding into her now, curling slightly to rub against that spot inside of her, and there's a deep ache low in her belly, and she knows it's not going to take much longer. And it doesn't; it only takes a few more seconds of him sucking rhythmically and she's coming, gasping and panting his name and bucking her hips up into his face, and letting one hand fall down to tangle in his hair.

 

Haymitch waits until she’s come down from her high and then he removes his mouth from her clit but keeps his fingers tucked inside, shifting his head slightly so that he can press a kiss to her hipbone. Effie’s shaking beneath him, her thighs quivering, and she feels his groan vibrate against her trembling skin when she clenches around his fingers, aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through her body.

 

He takes his time as he makes his way further up her body, the roughness of his stubble a direct contrast to the soft kisses he’s dropping against her stomach. When he reaches her breasts, he wastes no time in sucking her nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping against the straining bud where it’s trapped between his lips. She reaches behind to unhook her bra with shaking fingers, her breasts pushing against Haymitch's face in the process, and his groan vibrates against her skin when she casts the fabric aside.

 

He shifts his fingers inside her, giving a couple of lazy thrusts in time with the movement of his mouth, and she feels her clit pulse at the dual sensation. She’s still on edge after her previous orgasm, and she knows that it won’t take much at all to send her falling off that precipice once more. Haymitch’s boxer clad cock brushes up against her thigh, and her mind is made up.

 

His face is hovering over hers, and he’s lowering his mouth to kiss her again, his lips an inch away from her own when she starts to speak.

 

“I want your--I want you to--,” she starts, but she doesn’t finish, her cheeks heating up under the scrutiny of his gaze.

 

“You want what? Come on, sweetheart. You can tell me,” he prompts, and he sounds reassuring, _caring_ , and Effie is struck again by how much she’s underestimated this man.

 

“I want--I want you to fuck me,” she rushes out, the last part of her sentence so quiet that it’s almost inaudible even to her own ears, and she hopes he heard her the first time, because she’s not sure if she can say it again.

 

He pulls his fingers from her slowly, and a noise of disapproval leaves her lips before she can stop herself, high pitched and needy, but it soon morphs into a gasp when he moves his fingers up to toy with her clit before letting them sink easily back inside her. He claims her lips in a brutal kiss, swallowing her moan as he fucks her relentlessly with his fingers.

 

“Like this?” he asks, “With my fingers?” and he’s playing dumb, the cocky bastard. He knows what she wants; he just wants to hear her say it.

 

“N--no. You know what I mean. Stop teasing,” she whines, hooking a leg over the back of his thigh in an attempt to pull him closer to her.

 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, his hot breath against her lips.

 

It’s a particularly hard thrust of his fingers that does it, that has the words tumbling from her mouth unbidden. “Your--oh God, your _cock_ , Haymitch. Please, I need you to fuck me,” she cries out, her nails digging into his shoulders. No one has ever heard her like this before; she doesn’t think she’s ever heard herself like this before, and a thrill runs through her body, and she feels wanton, debauched and _free_.

 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice low and slightly croaky. He thumb brushes her clit fleetingly, and Effie reaches up and winds her arms around his neck before pulling him down towards her for an eager kiss. She doesn't think she's ever been more sure of anything in her life; she wants to feel him inside her, feel his thickness stretching her walls as he fucks her.

 

“Yes,” she breathes. “There are--there's a condom in my purse,” she elaborates, her cheeks flushing slightly at the admission as her hand reaches out and blindly gropes through the contents of her bag before closing around the foil packet that's safely hidden away in the side pocket. She'd placed it there after their meeting on her doorstep, when she'd felt herself on the brink of asking him to come inside and make her his. She'd known then that she wouldn't be able to resist the same temptation twice in one week, and had thought it best to be prepared, just in case she found herself back on his sofa again.

 

Haymitch makes quick work of his boxers, shifting slightly to kick them off, and then he’s back, and his body presses her harder into the sofa, his kisses increasing in urgency, and she groans when he scrapes his teeth against her bottom lip, nipping slightly before releasing it. His fingers falter slightly in their rhythm as he scoots down and takes her nipple into his mouth and sucks. Effie moans before she can stifle it, and he hums in approval against her breast as he works her over with his tongue and teeth and lips.

 

She arches against him and her next moan is louder, throatier, her foot brushing against the back of his calf as her hips rock up against him. When he shifts his head, Effie takes the opportunity to push him back slightly, her hands resting on his stomach as she takes a second to appreciate the view.

 

The muscles of his stomach jump slightly when she reaches for his cock, and she hears him suck in a deep breath when she wraps her fingers around him and starts to stroke. “Fuck,” he mutters lowly, as her thumb rubs over the beads of moisture that have gathered at the head of his cock, and he thrusts forward slightly into her hand when she gives him a lazy stroke from root to tip.

 

Haymitch withdraws his fingers, and his hand is shaking slightly as he picks up the condom that's resting on the sofa. He fumbles slightly as he rips the foil packet open, and Effie stretches her arms above her head as she watches him roll the condom on. He casts his eyes over her body, and then he tugs her hips forward so that he's resting against her. He takes his cock in hand and slides it against her clit a few times and then he lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into her with a muffled groan of her name.

 

Effie's mouth drops open on a wordless cry as he fills her, and she fights to keep her eyes open when his hands grasp her hips and he withdraws slightly before sliding all the way inside. He leans down and brushes his lips against hers and she opens for him willingly, her tongue meeting his in a deep kiss. She can hear how heavy her breathing is, and her chest is heaving against his, and she winds her legs around his hips and pulls him forward so that he's pressed against her more firmly.

 

“You feel so good,” she whispers when they break the kiss, and he strokes his fingers through her hair softly before resting them firmly on the sofa either side of her head.

 

“You feel fucking fantastic,” he says, his voice strained and tight with pleasure, and she sighs a little in response to his words.

 

He drops a kiss to her jawline as he gives a shallow thrust, and her fingers flex against his shoulders at the feeling of him moving within her. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady as he plants kisses across her jawline and neck, and then he uses his hands to push himself back slightly, hooking his arms under her knees as he starts to deepen his thrusts.

 

Effie inhales sharply at the change in angle, pleasure blooming in her belly as he increases his tempo, the firm movement of his hips causing his cock to hit that spot within her on every thrust. “Like that,” she gasps, biting down on her lip hard as her eyes squeeze shut on a particularly deep thrust. It's not going to take her long, not at all, and she can feel the familiar fluttering in her stomach as she rapidly approaches the edge.

 

She shifts her hand between her thighs, and he moans when her fingers brush up against his cock, his rhythm faltering only briefly before he resumes his movements. She'd known that he'd like this, watching her touch herself as he's fucking her, and her hand shakes only slightly as she lets her finger come to rest against her clit.

 

“That's it, touch yourself,” he pants, his eyes riveted to the spot where they're joined. She lets her finger stroke through her wetness, softly at first until she increases the pressure, choking out a sob as she rubs firmly against her swollen clit.

 

Her belly clenches as she feels the heat spreading across her collarbone and down over her breasts, and her finger is still against her clit, firm and steady, bringing her closer to the edge as his cock drives into her.

 

He leans forward suddenly, belly pressing against hers as he ups the pace, sharp thrusts of his hips against hers, his cock pounding into her relentlessly as she pinches her clit between her fingers before rubbing it firmly. She just manages to tilt her head up to press her lips against his, and then she's crying out into his mouth as her orgasm washes over her like a wave, pleasure cascading over her and drowning out all of her surroundings.

 

There's a roaring in her ears, and she's dimly aware of the little noises she's making as they both draw out her climax. His hips are rutting against her now, his hands fisted in her hair as he moves faster against her, and then he's tipping his head back, the cords of his neck taut as he comes with a harsh groan.

 

He thrusts deeply as he rides out his orgasm, fingers still clutching her hair as she lifts her hips to meet his, before he exhales heavily and lets his weight sink more fully onto her.

 

Effie touches his shoulders with shaking hands as she lies back fully onto the sofa and tries to catch her breath. She hums softly when Haymitch turns his head and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth before letting his forehead rest on hers, his eyes scrunched shut and his breathing heavy and laboured.

 

He pulls back slightly, reaches down and grips the condom as he pulls out of her, and she whimpers slightly at the loss. He rises to his feet on shaking legs, and for an awful second, Effie wonders if he's getting up to leave. The confusion must show on her face, because he motions to himself and mutters, “Just, uh--the trash,” before wandering in the direction of the kitchen. Effie hears the open and close of the trashcan, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she realises he's just gone to dispose of the condom. She immediately mentally chastises herself. They've had sex once; they're not in a relationship, and he has no obligation to her. Not really. Maybe he _will_ want to leave.

 

She's half holding her breath as Haymitch makes his way back over to the sofa. She's still flat on her back and completely naked, and she has the urge to cover herself with a blanket, and she feels her shoulders tense as she awaits his next movements. He grunts and nudges her slightly with his knee, and she shifts into her side, hoping that she's interpreted his non verbal communication correctly. It seems that she has, because he makes a noise of what sounds like approval, and his knees click slightly as he sits and then lays himself down next to her, throwing his arm loosely over her waist as he makes himself comfortable.

 

Their legs bump against each other as he leans forward and meets her lips in a languid kiss, and her hand draws lazy patterns in his chest as she lets herself get lost in the kiss.

 

“Got a blanket or something?” he asks when they part, “It's gonna get fucking freezing if we stay here like this for much longer.”

 

“Language,” she chides gently, but her words lack any real conviction, and she shifts slightly so that she can pull the throw from the back of the sofa and drape it over their rapidly cooling bodies. She thinks about asking him to go to bed with her, but she keeps the thought to herself and she doesn't open her mouth. She's still unsure as to what the situation is, and she doesn't want to scare Haymitch off by coming across too strong; her mother has always warned her against wearing her heart on her sleeve. He doesn't seem like the domestic sort of guy; then again, he hadn't seemed like the type to cuddle, but his arms are wrapped around her, so she supposes there are exceptions to the rule.

  
So they stay on the couch, and Effie presses herself a little closer to Haymitch, and she barely manages to suppress a smile when the arm he has flung across her waist tightens slightly in response.

 

She nuzzles her face into his neck and closes her eyes. It's just for a moment, she tells herself. Just so she can concentrate on the feel of his arm around her waist, and the way his fingers are drawing idle patterns on the skin of her lower back. She'll open her eyes any moment now.

 

Within minutes, she's sound asleep.


End file.
